


Never Shines the Sun

by madnorthbynorthwest



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, silva lives au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnorthbynorthwest/pseuds/madnorthbynorthwest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life clings to Raoul Silva, and when he wakes up in a hospital room following the events of Skyfall, Spectre is there to send him back to task. The mission is easy enough: kill James Bond. But as he digs into 007’s life, Silva must decide whether to trust the agent who killed him, or the organization that brought him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamesraoulsilva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/gifts).



> For @jamesraoulsilva

**Prologue**

The first thing he remembers is her eyes.

Deft, dark, defiant. There's fear, yes, but it's not enough. It doesn’t quench his thirst. It's a taunt, a fury gnawing at his bones and shrieking in his mind. Her eyes, and then her voice. And then there's nothing at all.

Even before he wakes, they haunt him. They are everything, everywhere. No remorse. No apologies. No explanations.

No escape.

Each breath is a labored effort, and it's that more than anything else that stirs him. Life clings to him, reaches once more into the abyss and plucks him from death's door.

"Where be your gibes now?" The rasp echoes across eons. A heavy breath, and he opens his eyes. "Not one now, to mock your own grinning?"

The words spark a fire in him as he sits up. _Now get you to my lady's chamber, to this favour must she come; make her laugh at that._

M is dead. She'll not laugh.

But he is alive, and the raucous merriment that bursts from his lips is an unholy hymn.

"Something amuses you, Mr. Silva?"

A man stands in the doorway, impartial to his outburst. Silva's laughter cuts short as abandon turns to caution. He watches with a cold indifference when the man strides to a seat beside his bed. "You should have let me die."

"You're far more use to us alive." His voice is curt, and his eyes sharper than the knife that pierced his back. "We have an assignment for you."

Now he smiles, all mirth. "You have nothing to offer me."

"You presume I offer you a choice." The man fixes him with an impatient stare.

Still smiling, he leans his head back onto the hospital pillow. "Always so demanding. It’s dull."

"I've little tolerance for impertinence, Mr. Silva. We have a common enemy. I want you to take him out."

Silva arches a bleached brow even as he holds back a curse. He's no fool. This can only go in one direction, and he’s not prepared to walk that path. Waving at his broken body, he heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I'm hardly fit for field duty."

"That is inconsequential.”

Biting back a bitter laugh, he tilts his head in contemplation. “And what do I call you?”

“You may call me ‘sir’.” A dark humor glints in the man’s eyes, but when Silva meets his gaze, he sighs. “Max Denbigh. I represent our mutual benefactor.”

Silva inspects his fingernails—they are longer than he likes. There’s no telling how long he’s been in the hospital. A pity they chose to intervene. He should have liked to die.

After a long moment, he looks back up, and privately delights at the impatience in Mr. Denbigh’s face. “And what does our benefactor want of me?”

“You have 72 hours to kill James Bond."


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond is a snarky little shit and I don't own the transcribed dialogue.

**Chapter One**

_For someone so tiny, she fills the room, Tiago thinks when he enters her office. It’s his first time in Hong Kong, his first real assignment, the beginning of his career as a 00._

_And she is to be his boss._

_“I assume you’ve been briefed?” Her voice is clipped, emotionless, but if he squints just so, he can catch the glimpse of hope in her eyes. She’s been disappointed before._

_Well,_ he _won’t be a disappointment._ _“Yes.”_

_“Then there’s no reason for us to chat.” M stands and gives a curt wave, a dismissal. “Welcome to Hong Kong, 004.”_

 

“Start anywhere you like.” Bond schools his face as M tosses journal after journal onto his desk. He’s botched the job in Mexico City, there’s no two ways about it.

Still. Sciarra is dead, and that’s all that matters.

“Take your time, 007, but in five minutes, the head of the Joint Security Service is going to walk through that door and I’ve got to explain to him how one of our agents decided to potter off to Mexico—all on his own—and cause an international incident.”

“With all due respect, sir, it could have been worse.” He’s practiced the mantra. Logic can save him, if he plays his cards right.

M almost laughs. “Worse? You blew up half a bloody block.”

The retort is instant. “Better half a block than a whole stadium full of people.”

Clenching his jaw, M narrows his eyes. Bond has him cornered, and, like a dog, he takes the only exit. “You had no authority. None.”

Bond raises his eyebrows. As though that’s mattered in the past.

“007, we’re in the biggest shakeup in the history of British Intelligence. The ink’s barely dry on this merger with MI5, and already they’re itching for a chance to scrap the 00 program forever.” He says each word slowly, as though Bond can’t comprehend them without the help. “And you’ve just given them one.”

The corners of his mouth twitch upward. Two can play this game. “You’re right, sir. You have got a tricky day ahead.”

M stands, lips twisting into a snarl. “This is an official question: Mexico City. What were you doing there?”

It would be so easy to explain, if only he could trust him. Bond keeps his face impassive. “It was just a coincidence. I was taking some overdue holiday.”

“Okay, fine.” He’s won, for now, but M gives a parting shot. “As of this morning, you are officially grounded. I’m standing you down from all operations indefinitely.”

But of course. Bond buttons his jacket as he stands, all courtesy. “Very good, sir.”

Turning to leave, he pauses at the sound of M’s voice. “007.”

It’s half a plea, and he looks back. “Sir?”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but whatever it is, it has to stop.” A crack appears in M’s façade as frustration seeps into his voice. The game is over. “ _Now_.”

The door opens before Bond can answer. He turns to see a young man glancing between them.

“So sorry. Am I interrupting?”

M shakes his head. “Not remotely. 007, I’d like you to meet Max Denbigh, head of the Joint Security Service.”

He’s heard of the man, but never met the tosser. Bond inclines his head.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, 007. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Denbigh pauses for a congenial smile. Bond’s instincts scream to hit him. “Most of it good.”

He suppresses the instinct. “Congratulations on your new appointment. I suppose we should call you C now?”

Irritation flickers in Denbigh’s eyes. “No, no. Max, please.”

Bond’s lips twitch. “No, I think I’ll call you C.”

The fury is there, underneath layer upon layer of politic charm. Still, Denbigh’s voice is calm. “As you wish…Well, my door is always open, 007, for my employees. This merger’s going to be a whole new chapter for us. We’re going to bring British Intelligence out of the Dark Ages, into the light.”

There’s a threat in his expression. Bond smiles, unmoved. “That all sounds lovely.”

“That’ll be all, 007.” M says, and Bond’s gaze flickers to his boss. His stance is wary—he doesn’t trust Denbigh either. “Report to Q tomorrow for medical, thank you.”

“Very good, sir.” Bond leaves the office with a nod.

Eyes are on him as he heads out of the building. The world is clamoring for his secrets, and he’ll leave them disappointed. Bond’s face is expressionless when he passes—the gossip will get nowhere from watching him.

As he crosses the courtyard, a voice echoes across the walkway. “James!”

He pauses at the sound of his name. Keeping his voice even, he turns with a curt nod. “Moneypenny.”

“Sir, how was the meeting?” She is carrying a box, but her stare is fixed on him. Marvelous.

Prying will get her as far as staring will get the rest of them. “Very good, thank you.”

If the dismissal offends her, she doesn’t show it. Moneypenny offers the box to him. “Here. Forensics finally released this.”

With the change of subject, he allows himself to be distracted. “What is it?”

“It’s personal effects they’ve recovered from Skyfall.” She says the word as though it hasn’t ripped out his heart. How fortunate she can be so distant.

“Perfect,” Bond turns again, walking toward the car park, where he can taste the bliss of privacy. “You can bring it to me later.”

She follows him, eyes curious. “What do you mean?”

“My place. 9:00.” With that, he quickens his pace. It’s long past time to go home.

 

Time seems to crawl as he waits for the clock to strike nine. Bond stares out the window, glass of whiskey in hand. A memory, unbidden, worms its way into the back of his head. The man’s voice is almost a caress.

_“Just look at you, barely held together by your pills and your drink.”_

“And my pathetic love of country.” He mutters, downing the glass. It’s been months since the incident at Skyfall, and he’d rather put it behind him. But the ghosts linger, haunting him in the far reaches of his mind.

The doorbell rings. Setting his glass down on the coffee table as he crosses the room, Bond opens the door with a tight smile. She’s right on time.

Moneypenny’s smile, for her part, is genuine. “Evening.”

“Come in.”

She pauses halfway through the doorway, arching her eyebrows. “Have you just moved in?”

It’s his turn to stop. “…No.”

Glancing at his sparse flat, Moneypenny shrugs. “Well, I like what you’ve done with the place.” As she turns back, she hands him the box. “Your delivery.”

“Thank you.” He takes it from her, walking down the room and tossing it on the coffee table. It lands beside the ungodly British dog M left him. He reaches for a clean glass. “Would you like a drink?”

She shakes her head. “No thanks, I’m not staying.”

“That’s a shame.” And it is. She’s a delightful woman when she isn’t shooting him.

Moneypenny hesitates for half a moment before taking a step forward. “What’s going on, James?”

Bond takes a seat in the chair in front of the window, ignoring the question.

“There’s not one person at MI6 who’s not talking about it.”

As expected. Still, he raises an eyebrow. “Talking about what, exactly?”

She shifts, putting her weight on one foot. “That what you did in Mexico is one step too far. That you’re finished.”

Ah. The usual gossip. Nothing to be worried about, then. “And what do you think?”

“I think you’re just getting started.” Moneypenny takes another step forward, straightening her shoulders and staring him down.

He looks away, all nonchalance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“All right.” She catches his eyes, holding them with pure force of will. “I think you’ve got a secret, and it’s something you won’t tell anyone because you don’t trust anyone.”

She’s got him there. He can deny it, and she’ll be all the more convinced, or he can show her. Reaching for the television remote, Bond sighs and switches it on.

Moneypenny glances at it, curious, and gasps when the picture appears.

It’s a visit from a ghost. She is as bold in death as she was in life. M stares directly into the camera, through the recording and into his soul, daring him to refuse her. “If anything happens to me, 007, I need you to do something.”

As though he could do anything else.

“Find a man called Marco Sciarra.” She pronounces the name with a slow intonation, making sure he catches it. “Kill him, and don’t miss the funeral.”

The video flickers and switches off.

Moneypenny swears under her breath. When she speaks again, her voice is breathy. “Where did you get it?”

“In my mailbox, just after she died.” There’s no keeping secrets. He’s trusted her so far, he’ll trust her with everything.

“Well, she never was short of surprises.” Moneypenny is still staring at the television, and her expression softens in a wistful memory.

Bond lets himself indulge in the nostalgia. With a faint smile, he agrees. “She wasn’t going to let death get in the way of her job.”

They give her a moment of silence. She deserves that much.

“I’ve been tracking Sciarra ever since.” Bond says, at last. He turns his glass over in his hand, watching the way the light dances off of the rim.

She turns to face him. “And what have you found?”

Shaking his head, he lowers the glass to the coffee table. “Nothing significant. Yet.”

That could be a lie, but there’s no telling if the ring holds any secrets. It’s best not to mention it until he has proof.

“When’s the funeral?”

He stands and crossed toward her. “Three days. In Rome.”

With a startled laugh, she scoffs. “Well, if you think M is singing off on that, you’re insane. He won’t let you out of his sight.”

“Yes, it’s a bit of a problem.” He sticks a hand in his pocket, feeling for the ring and turning it over in his fingers. “Listen…could you do a little quiet digging for me? I heard a name in Mexico: the Pale King.”

Moneypenny sets her jaw, looking away in disgust. “You want me to be your mole!”

“Yes.” There’s little point in denying the obvious.

She looks back at him sidelong. “And what makes you think you can trust me?”

A self-assured smile creeps across his face. “Instinct.”

Moneypenny stares at him for a long moment. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” With that, the conversation is over.

Moneypenny bids him a goodnight, and he watches her leave with a measure of gratitude. Things will be easier with her help. He’s not so proud to think he can do this alone.

When Moneypenny reaches her car, he turns away from the window and takes a seat on the sofa. With a sigh, he reaches for the box.

He can almost smell the past as he opens it. There’s a number of photographs—all charred and battered with time and the explosion. He pauses on one of Hannes and Franz Oberhauser. A much smaller James Bond stands beside them with a wide grin. Oh, to be a child again. Bond smiles, taking idle notice of the burn cutting out Franz’s face.

A pity. He would have liked the memory.

Tossing the photographs back on the coffee table, he closes his eyes and leans back. A whisper escapes his lips. “The last two rats. That’s what she made us.”

He can almost hear Silva’s voice in the words. Mexico City and the Day of the Dead celebrations have him fixated on the incident, and the loneliness of being the sole survivor. The memory will fade with time, but for now, he is too raw to heal. Better to focus on the task at hand than on Skyfall.

Bond banishes the thoughts from his mind and downs the rest of his drink.

There’s little use in dwelling on the ghosts of the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that roughly 80% of the dialogue in this fic is directly lifted from the movie, mainly because I follow it pretty closely until Silva and Bond meet up, and because I can't write pathetic like Franz. (Sorry not sorry Blofeld fans.)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Silva admires the booty, is entertained by Q, and snarks on C.

**Chapter Two**

_Her office is spotless, organized perfectly, he notices. Not a paperclip out of place, compared to his own chaotic workspace. How perfect she is, how unworthy he is to work under her pristine command._

_Tiago checks his impatience, closing his eyes as he waits for her to finish reading his report._

_“You’ve done well, 004.” Her voice is almost warm, laced with approval. He’s_ done well _, impressed her. And he’ll do anything to impress her again._

_Tiago cannot help the smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”_

_“That will be all.” She says, and the warmth is gone. “Report to Q for medical.”_

 

Silva pushes a blond lock of hair out of his eyes. He hasn’t had the chance to visit a barber since the hospital released him—he’ll have to make that a priority. Stretching his fingers, he boots up the laptop Denbigh has outfitted for him. It’s nothing fancy, but it will have to do, for now.

Denbigh assures him that the laptop is connected to the MI6 database—he won’t have to stretch his abilities getting into the system. _Alas_ , he thinks. _So much for my fun_.

The computer takes too long to load, and Silva rolls his eyes, voice mocking. “It’s the latest model. It’ll handle anything you need.”

He stands, crossing the hotel room to grab a cup of coffee. He’ll need the caffeine to deal with insufficient tech.

This is all temporary, of course. His flight isn’t scheduled for another five hours, giving him just enough time to hack into MI6 and find out what James Bond has been up to for the past several months. Then it’s back home, to his personal setup and the tech he can trust.

When he comes back to the bed, the computer has finished loading. He taps the keyboard, logging in. Running his fingers along the bottom of the notebook, he disables the tracking device Denbigh has fitted onto the machine. If they think they can control him that easily, they’ll learn their lesson soon enough.

He scans the computer’s software and frowns. There’s a number of programs that will only cause him problems, and several spyware bots meant to report back on his progress. That won’t do.

“I’m not a tame rat,” he says cheerfully as he sets to work.

An hour passes, and he’s set up the laptop to his exacting standards. It will report only what he wants it to, and any attempts to track him will end in a wild goose chase.

If they couldn’t trust him to do his job, they shouldn’t have saved him in the first place.

Silva hums a Portuguese lullaby as he pulls up the MI6 report logs. He takes a luxurious sip of coffee as he scans them, and smiles when he finds what he’s looking for.

Bond has been a naughty boy. How delightful. Silva laughs aloud and stretches his fingers, scanning through more reports.

Aha!

The final report shows him reporting to Q-branch even as he reads. Closing the logs, he pulls up a video feed to watch. It’s sure to prove amusing, at the very least.

According to the reports, MI6 has moved from the old building to a new Centre for National Security, but the room that appears in his video feed can’t possibly be connected to such a modern structure.

Q must dislike the new place, and Silva can’t help but grin. He’s never met the boy, but he likes him already. His priorities are in the right place, and he’s smart enough to hide from prying eyes.

Clever child. No wonder he’s moved up so fast.

He taps a number of keys, switching between video feeds, until at last he finds a small room with a chair in the center. Bond is sitting there, with Q hovering over his arm.

The sight of 007 is enough to send his head reeling. It’s hardly been a day since he woke up, but for Bond, it’s been months. How strange to see him about as though Skyfall never happened.

Silva tips his head back, hitting the ‘record’ key. He’ll watch this when he can unclench his jaw.

Bond hasn’t aged a day. He’s every inch the rugged, impossible agent he ever was. And handsome, Silva can’t help but note. He’d noticed that the first time he saw the man. Hasn’t stopped noticing it, if he’s honest with himself.

“That’s a dangerous path, Raoul.” Silva mutters, and turns away from the screen to finish the rest of his coffee.

At last, he relaxes, and tunes in to the video feed.

“That’s it, lovely.” Q shifts away from Bond and stares into the screen that—unbeknownst to him—is staring right back. “Now, you may feel a small prick.”

Bond hisses, and Silva’s stomach knots. The sound tears through him, as though Bond’s pain is his own.

He pauses the video again and stands. _Get it together_ , he thinks. _Focus. You’re here to kill him_.

Glancing at his watch, Silva sighs. “72 hours.”

He’s bargained for an extra day, giving him enough time to recover and be released from the hospital. Denbigh wasn’t happy about the agreement, but the _babaca_ will get over it. It’s unreasonable to task him so fresh out of the emergency rooms.

So it’s 72 hours to kill James Bond, or report to Denbigh for execution.

A likely story. More like 72 hours to disappear. Spectre may have eyes everywhere, but Silva knows where those eyes are. It would be so easy to manage. They’d never find him if he put his mind to it.

But is that what he wants?

He shakes his head, “Focus, imbecile.”

Filling his cup with a fresh drop of coffee, he returns to the computer and presses ‘play’.

Bond stares into the screen, almost as though he can see Silva watching him. Shivering, he ignores the sensation and focuses on the rough sound of the 00’s voice. “What is it?”

“Cutting edge nano technology.” Q says, turning to grab a cotton swab as he explains. “Smart Blood. Microchips in your bloodstream allows us to track your movements in the field.”

Silva frowns. Has Denbigh injected this Smart Blood into him? That won’t do.

Q continues. “You see those readouts? We can monitor your vital signs from anywhere on the planet.”

“Well that sounds marvelous.” Bond and Silva say at the same time, and Silva laughs.

“Call it a post-Mexico insurance policy. By direct order of M.” Q is saying in the background, but he pays it no mind. There’s little reason to pay attention to what he already knows.

Bond smiles and it could well be the bloody sun. Silva closes his eyes. “ _Deus me dê força_.”

_God give me strength_.

“I completely understand.” Bond says, in that flippant, devil-may-care tone that indicates he’s plotting murder. He’s heard it before, on his island, and it hasn’t lost any of its charm.

If Q hears the threat, he ignores it. “Good.”

Silva pauses the video and frowns at his arm. There’s no sign of a needle-prick, even from the IV, so there’s no telling if he’s been outfitted with the Smart Blood too.

“This takes priority.” He clenches his teeth, pulling up a second tab to hack into the Smart Blood files. Once he’s familiarized himself with them, he’ll have the codes he’ll need to hack his own body, if it comes to that.

And if MI6 is turning on its own prized agent, then Spectre will most certainly turn on him.

He takes his time reading the files, his frown growing deeper with every page.

“This won’t do.” Pulling the laptop closer, he hacks into the files, looking for a second feed—one that monitors him.

On the very edge of Q-branch’s vision, right below where he would look on any given day, Silva finds it. His own files, beeping steadily with his pulse and showing him in his hotel room in London.

Fantastic.

With a stretch to his arms and fingers, Silva sighs and takes to task. His fingers run furiously across the board, typing a number of commands and duplicating the files. If he purges them, they’ll know he’s gone rogue, and someone will come after him.

But if he creates a false code, they’ll follow it instead and leave him with more time to disappear.

If he decides to take that path, anyway. He hasn’t made a decision yet. _You could run away, leave this behind and start afresh…_

Still. Spectre saved his life, for all he doesn’t want it, and he owes them some form of loyalty.

_Stay on track_.

It takes him well over 45 minutes to finish his work, but when he leans back, there’s a steady, false signal leading to a trail that will never end.

“Find me now.” Silva says to the empty air, and turns back to the feed with his pretty little agent.

They’re back in the main room, and Q is laughing at someone’s joke. Silva smiles to see that Bond is unimpressed with the humor.

“Enjoy your downtime, 007.” The Quartermaster says as he turns toward the camera.

Silva lips twitch. He does like the child’s spunk. Perhaps one day they’ll meet face-to-face.

“Q?” Bond asks, and Silva’s eyes snap back to his mark.

Whatever Q says is a blur to what 007 purrs. Oh, that _voice_.

“Now you know exactly where I am all the time,” Bond toys with a watch in his hands. “Will you do something for me?”

“What do you have in mind, exactly?” Q asks, even as Silva smirks. His boy is so predictable.

“Make me disappear.”

The expression on Q’s face only endears him to Silva. The boy turns, exasperated. “May I remind you that I answer directly to M. I also have a mortgage. And two cats to feed.”

“Well, then I suggest you trust me…for the sake of the cats.” Bond whispers, barely loud enough for Silva to hear. As though he’d miss listening in!

Q stares at him for a long moment, and then gives a faltering smile as he crossed behind his desk. “Well it’s lovely to see you again, 007. Um, lovely…Now I meant to tell you the Smart Blood program is obviously still in its developmental phase. So we may experience the odd drop during the first 24 hours…”

Bond stares at Q, but Silva indulges in a fantasy where he is staring at him.

“48 hours after administration, but after that it should work perfectly.” Q’s voice sounds relieved when Bond smiles.

“I’ll send you a postcard.” The agent promises.

Although he can only see the back of Q’s head, Silva can imagine the boy’s expression. “Please don’t.”

With that, Bond leaves the room, and Silva pauses his video feed again. “Delightful boy.” He says, shaking his head with a laugh. For a moment, he isn’t sure whether he is speaking about Q or Bond. For a moment, it doesn’t matter.

 

Silva lets the video run as he packs his few belongings for the flight to Macau. There’s little of interest until he catches sight of Bond in the background, and pulls the laptop closer to watch.

For research purposes. Not because he wants to stare at the agent’s arse, he tells himself.

_Really_.

From the looks of it, Q-branch has gone home for the day. So what is Bond doing back there?

Bond fiddles with the keys to a shining silver car. Silva smiles, like an indulgent parent, and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t.”

He would.

Pulling the car forward, Bond arranges a postcard around a bucket and bottle of champagne. Turning to face the camera, he smiles at his own antics, and hops back into the car, driving it out of the property.

“Darling, you’ve gone rogue.” Silva touches the screen where the agent had been and sighs. “If only you’d done it sooner. We could have had so much fun.”

He closes out of the program—if Bond has left with the car, he won’t be back, and there’s little point in keeping watch over Q, no matter how amusing he finds the boy. Silva finishes packing and, sliding the laptop into a secure sleeve, he leaves the hotel room behind.

Home is calling, and he’s missed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silva and Q being hacker bros is important to me.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is reliable with the ladies, and Franz is a loser.

**Chapter Three**

_When he’s in the field, he’s in complete control over the situation. When he sits behind M’s desk, however, he’s a child, barely competent enough to make his mother smile. It’s the first time Tiago thinks of her as Mother, and the nickname sticks._

_M briefs him on his next mission, and he keeps his ears open. She hasn’t been happy lately. The Chinese have been causing them problems. He’ll have to fix things, find a way to make her happy again._

_He’s the one to do it. He’ll do whatever it takes, make her job easier. He swears it._

 

“Don’t miss the funeral,” M said. Bond doesn’t intend to.

The drive to Rome is cathartic, in a way. For a few precious hours, he has the comfort of silence and the surety of a mission. By now, Q must have found his gift. If the boy hadn’t wanted him to steal the car, he never should have shown it to him in the first place.

009 will forgive him.

Eventually.

He arrives partway through the funeral. Keeping his distance, Bond trains his eyes on Sciarra’s widow. She’s beautiful, but she holds herself with resignation. There’s danger in her future, and she knows it.

The party leaves her to mourn, and Bond takes the opportunity to approach. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

There’s no pain in her expression, only fear and release. There was no love between her and her husband. Still, her voice is strong, elegant. She won’t show that fear. “You knew my husband?”

“All too briefly.”

She watches him, eyes curious behind her veil. “What do you do?”

Bond keeps his answer brief. No need for her to know who he is. Yet. “Life insurance.”

“A little late for that.” There’s a touch of irony in her response. The file says her name is Lucia. He tucks the information away—he’ll need it later.

Letting the scarcest hint of a smile cross his face, he nods. “For your husband, yes. What about you?”

This woman is not involved in Sciarra’s organization. She doesn’t deserve what will undoubtedly happen to her now. Bond schools his face. Whatever else he’s meant to do in Rome, he’ll protect her.

He owes her that much.

Lucia’s mouth opens in a whisper. “Me?”

“I hear the life expectancy of some widows can be very short.” It’s the closest thing to a clue he’ll give her.

Her mouth sets. “How can you talk like this? Can’t you see I’m grieving?”

Bond shakes his head, opting for the truth. “No.”

If she has a response, it’s cut off. Her eyes widen as a man approaches from some distance behind her, staring at them. No doubt there’s one behind him as well. She turns, and, with a sigh, heads toward the rest of the party, her stride that of a dead woman.

He watches her go, slipping on his sunglasses. She _definitely_ needs his protection.

Turning to the man behind him, Bond waves, a too-cheerful smile on his face. It’s a warning, but one the man ignores.

 

Killing her executioners is simple. Seducing her for information is even simpler. She protests at first, preoccupied with her own safety, but she melts into a tender touch.

Lucia tells him everything between heated kisses, and when he gauges the time, he indulges in the luxury of her bed. It’s not strictly protocol, but it gets him what he needs. In return, he’ll have his contacts in America take her to a safe house.

A mutually beneficial relationship.

In the aftermath, he slips her husband’s ring on his finger. It will almost certainly be needed to enter the meeting.

Leaving her with a kiss and a promise of safety, Bond sets his mind to task and drives to the Palazzo Cadenza, there to infiltrate the meeting and find his new mark.

The car park is near full when he arrives, and a number of men linger outside the building. He takes brief note of their faces, in the event he needs to kill them later, and walks closer to the entrance. Before he can take the stairs, a large man approaches, expression both curious and hostile.

“Identify yourself.” He orders in Italian, looking Bond up and down.

Replying in the same language, Bond resists a smirk. “I’m Mickey Mouse. Who are you?”

When he holds up his hand, flashing the ring, the effect is immediate. The man excuses himself and waves Bond inside, eyes wide in fear of disapproval.

Almost too easy.

As he enters, voices can be heard from the meeting hall, where a man discusses illicit pharmaceutical activities and the problems their organization faces from the WHO. None of the men in the balconies pay him mind as he leans forward, listening in on the announcements.

Below them, the speaking man sits at a large table, surrounded by his colleagues.

The man ends his notice, and a woman—the only woman he sees in the party—takes the floor, discussing in German their success in human trafficking. Bond suppresses a shudder of disgust.

It will be a delight to tear them down for good.

Midway through the woman’s speech, the doors open, and everyone around the table stands. It’s too bright to tell who enters the room, but from the reverent silence, the man who takes his seat at the head of the table is the most important member of their organization.

After several moments, the leader leans forward, speaking in a cold British accent. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

With that, the party sits, and the woman begins speaking again.

As she finishes her report, another man thanks her and addresses the audience. “Now, on to the matter at hand.”

Bond inches closer.

“After the success of our attacks in Hamburg and Tunisia, the aborted attack in Mexico City and the death of our valued colleague, Marco Sciarra, leaves one of his duties outstanding.” The man says, speaking with a clear and calm voice that betrays his nerves. He is not comfortable in the presence of his superior.

A man whose face is too obstructed by shadow to make out. Bond purses his lips, waiting for the opportune moment.

“Signor Guerra, the Pale King must be terminated. Will you make the journey to Altaussee?”

A man at the lower end of the table stands, his expression proud. In Spanish, he pledges himself to the cause, his speech of loyalty overt and flowery. Bond wrinkles his nose in disgust. It’s too showy.

The leader’s left hand man whispers into his master’s ear as Signor Guerra takes his seat. A moment passes and the principal speaker stands to discuss options with them. Bond strains, but cannot hear what they are saying.

At last, the speaker straightens and looks over the congregation. “Does anyone challenge Signor Guerra for this position?”

Silence descends as the party looks amongst themselves. No one moves, until a large man in a black suit approaches from the rafters.

“Welcome, Signor Hinx.” The speaker says, as though the matter is already decided. “State your credentials for succeeding Signor Sciarra.”

Signor Guerra looks at the man with a smug, confident smile. The man looks back, calm. They do nothing for half a beat, and then Hinx slams Guerra’s head onto the table. Taking him by the head, he places both hands on either side of the Spaniard’s face and presses sharp, metal thumbnails into Guerra’s eyes.

Guerra screams.

The congregation watches in silence as the man blinds his rival, and then snaps his neck. He pushes the Spaniard’s limp body aside and takes his seat at the end of the table.

“It’s funny,” the leader says, and Bond frowns. He can almost recognize the voice. “All that excitement in Mexico City rang a distant bell. And now, suddenly, this evening—it makes perfect sense. Welcome, James.”

Bond keeps his face collected even as his stomach drops. He hasn’t infiltrated anything. This was planned for him.

The realization makes him nauseous. He should have known it was too easy.

“It’s been a long time.” The leader continues, still facing Mr. Hinx. “But, finally, here we are. What took you so long?”

Slowly, he turns, and the light catches his face even as the memories align. Bond stiffens at the sight.

Nothing is truly impossible in his line of work, but some things can still catch him off guard.

“Cuckoo.” Franz Oberhauser says with a small smile.

As Bond whirls, he finds himself facing the large man who admitted him into the meeting. The man smiles, “Ciao, Mickey Mouse.”

Returning the smile, Bond attacks, striking him in the face and throwing him over the balcony. Below them, men scatter in every direction. Counting on the distraction, he crashes through a window, dodging bullets as he heads down an outer flight of stairs.

He leaps from the second floor to his car, slamming the door behind him and pealing out of the car park with a vengeance. Only one of the assassins is fast enough to reach his car and begin pursuit.

It’s the man who killed Guerra. Of course it is.

They race through the empty Roman streets, each trying to outrun the other. Bond glances at a panel of switches to his left, testing several and finding each useless in its own right. The first does nothing without loaded ammunition, and the second plays a god-awful melody that only Q would enjoy.

Useless.

Taking a sharp turn onto an alley, he crashes into a parked car. It does little to slow him down, and Bond puts pressure on the acceleration.

He hasn’t gotten this far to be taken out now.

As he speeds through the alley, another car cuts in front of him, taking its sweet time roaming down the street. Bond swears and honks in a furious attempt to make the man go faster. It does nothing.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he can see Mr. Hinx’s car closing in on him. He sighs, creeping closer to the other car and pushing against it. Ahead of him, the man in the driver’s seat shakes his fist, but Bond ignores it, speeding through the street and forcing the other car along the way.

At last, he reaches a sharp turn and sends the Italian’s car into a parking spot. He might feel guilty for the damage he’s done, but one does what one must when driving for one’s life.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he reaches maximum speed and reaches down to hit the cell phone he’s left below. “Moneypenny.”

If she can’t help him, no one can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a deleted scene, I mention that Lucia lives. Because she deserves better.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva has doubts. Big ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted too early. Whatever. You can all deal with it.

**Chapter Four**

_“Are you certain you haven’t been hacking beyond your orders, 004?” M asks, and her voice is hard—so unlike what he yearns to hear._

_Tiago nods._

_She purses her lips. “Well, someone has been, and the Chinese are catching on. If you’re sure you haven’t done anything without orders, you may go. Otherwise, you’ll be suspended from field duty indefinitely.”_

_He can’t bear the thought of disappointing her. Tiago nods again. “I’ve done only as you asked.”_

_“Good. Keep it that way. You’re dismissed, 004.” M waves a curt hand._

_“Very good.”_

_What he’s done, he’s done for her._

 

Silva’s computer beeps as Bond’s voice crackles through a poor cell phone connection. Presumably, 007 thinks the line is safe. It’s best to let him think that way.

He pauses his breakfast and slides his chair across the room to his computer, tapping to increase the volume.

“Hamburg, Tunisia, Mexico City, they’re all linked. It’s all one organization coordinating multiple attacks.” Bond sounds preoccupied, and Silva turns the volume up loud enough to hear an engine roaring in the distance.

With a smile, he shakes his head. His pretty little agent will never learn to slow down, will he?

“So she was right.” A female voice—Eve Moneypenny, according to the phone files—replies with a sharp intake of breath.

Bond’s voice is curt. “Of course she was.”

“I ran that check…” Moneypenny trails off as a male voice in the distance asks her a question. It derails the conversation long enough for her and Bond to discuss the concept of a social life.

Silva can’t help but laugh at the idea that Bond is lacking in society, when the rumors of his romantic conquests have cycled through the criminal underworld time and again.

At last, she returns to the subject at hand. “The Pale King. It looks like you’ve had dealings with him before. Quantum.”

“Of course!” Bond exclaims, exasperated with himself. “Mr. White.”

“That’s him. Last unconfirmed sighting, Altaussee in Austria, four months ago.”

He types an order to his men— _prepare the helicopter for a flight to Austria immediately_.

Bond sighs. “Hold that thought.”

The engine thunders in the background, and Silva wonders who is chasing him. They won’t succeed in killing Bond, of course, but if they happen to wound him, he’ll be sure to pay them a visit and take revenge.

No one is to touch his prize.

After several moments of silence, Bond speaks again. “You still there?”

As though he’d be anywhere else, Silva thinks.

Moneypenny answers with her mouth full. “Yes.”

“Run another name, will you? A man called Franz Oberhauser. Check his files before _and_ after his death.” Bond stresses the request, and Silva cocks his head in curiosity. There’s no Oberhauser in Spectre…to his knowledge, anyway.

It’s time to do a little more digging.

“After his death, what are you talking about?” Moneypenny asks, confused.

He sounds as though he’s speaking through gritted teeth, and Silva wonders if it’s the plea or the chase that has him stressed “Please, just do it.”

The call ends abruptly, leaving Silva to wonder just who he’s been working for.

 

The flight to Altaussee is longer than he would like, but with Bond on a steady route to Austria, Silva must make sure to reach the Pale King before his mark.

He takes the downtime to research Spectre, its members, and the name Franz Oberhauser.

And finds nothing. For all practical purposes, Franz Oberhauser is dead.

“I’m disappointed.” He mutters, closing his laptop. (This time, it’s one of his own, and not something worth more dismantled and donated to Q-branch.) Leaning back in his seat, he contemplates the situation.

The man is dead, but Bond has seen him. It reeks of Spectre involvement, but he can’t find anything in his preliminary searches.

He’ll dig deeper, of course. But for now…

Why rescue him if Blofeld already had plans to kill Bond? Is he to be a backup for the real plan? Have they dared to regulate him to second place? What else have they lied about?

This won’t do at all.

With a _tsk_ of disapproval, Silva runs another search, eyes flickering to the window.

By the snow-covered mountain range below them, they’ve reached Austria, and he has yet to find anything to report. Spectre’s secrets run deep, but he’ll find them in time.

Now that he knows to look, he’ll uncover everything.

Mr. White was last seen four months ago, in a remote cabin in Altaussee. Silva fixes his mind on the task at hand—reach him before Bond does. Whatever comes after that, he has this to cling to.

“Sir?” The pilot calls out on the radio, and he tunes in to the present. “We’re landing in five minutes.”

“Thank you, Hans.” Silva packs his laptop away and wonders if he can trust the man in front of him. Can he trust any of the men he’s recruited, or are they all loyal to Blofeld?

He can’t trust Spectre. They’ve excluded him from their plans at best, and lied to him at worst—and what is that if not betrayal? They steal him from death, and now this?

No, they don’t deserve his loyalty.

But can he trust Bond, the man who killed him?

There are no easy answers. With a resigned sigh, he reaches into his bag and pulls out his gun. _Follow the plan, Raoul_. He’ll catch a commercial flight when all is said and done.

They land without incident, and Silva whispers an apology before shooting the pilot in the back of his head.

Hopping out onto the landing pad, he swings his pack over one shoulder and winces. His back is still tender from the stabbing.

Just another bit of conversation for when he finally meets with Bond.

Shooting every attendant he passes, Silva makes his way downstairs.

A BMW M4 convertible in chrome waits for him, but he shakes his head. If it was meant for him, it will have at least one tracking device on it, and he doesn’t have the time to disable them all.

Best choose something else, then.

He takes a run-down Mercedes and pulls out of the car park with a chuckle. It’s not his first choice, but it will do.

“To Mr. White.”

 

Silva parks several miles away from the cabin and approaches on foot, trusting the snow to cover his footsteps by the time Bond arrives.

He shivers as he opens the back door. It hasn’t been locked. Mr. White must be expecting them.

That’s fine with him. The Pale King will surely be more willing to work with him than the man who tried to kill him once before.

Mr. White has deserted Spectre, and for that Blofeld feels he must die. He knows too much. Silva shakes his head. They kill the one, but they bring the other back from the dead. A pity they have underestimated him.

He can vanish, as Mr. White has done, or he can tear them apart from the inside out. The choice is dizzying. Either will be a delight.

The cabin is dusty inside, as though no one has stirred in weeks. Silva creeps through the halls, hand on his gun in the event he should run into trouble. Security cameras are mounted in each room, blinking a steady red light. But there’s nothing else.

Downstairs is empty. He shrugs and heads up the stairs, checking every room for hidden passages. There is nothing. At last, he enters the master bedroom, and turns around. So much for the upstairs. He must have missed something below.

In his second pass of the lower floor, Silva stops in front of a floor-length mirror near the basement. If there’s a passageway in the cabin, it’s probably here.

Silva reaches along the mirror’s frame, feeling for a switch, and smiles when he presses one. It doesn’t appear to do anything, but when he touches the glass, it gives way for him. The panel creaks as it moves backward, leading to a staircase that opens to a large safe room. Computer monitors are strung up, showing the security feed, and Mr. White is slumped in a chair watching them.

He doesn’t turn.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. White.” Silva says as he walks down the stairs.

The man doesn’t respond, doesn’t move.

When he reaches the ground, he furrows his brow. Mr. White has given no impression that he’s even heard what Silva has said. “A poor time to sleep, don’t you think?”

Still nothing.

Reaching out a hand, he touches Mr. White’s shoulder, and sighs when he feels the tell-tale stiffness.

They’re both too late.

Mr. White’s unseeing eyes are open wide in a post-mortem spasm. Silva closes them and looks over the body. There are no wounds to suggest foul play, no signs that an assassin has beat him to the room. He examines the body for bruises, and finds nothing. For all intents and purposes, Mr. White may as well be asleep.

Which suggests a number of natural causes…or poison.

 _Why send an assassin to do the work you’ve already done?_ Silva wonders, trying to understand his benefactor. There’s nothing to understand, of course. The man is clearly out of his mind with power. Perhaps it’s best to take him out, after all. Turning to the computers, Silva taps a key and raises his eyebrows when a video pops up.

Mr. White, ragged and white-faced, heaves for breath. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re too late. The thallium in my phone did the work for you. If you’re one of them, you can go to hell. If you’re not…”

He tilts his head and glances sidelong at the man’s corpse as a photograph of a smiling blonde appears on the screen.

“…Tell my daughter I love her.”

The video cuts off, and he glances down at the dead man. The words escape his lips before he can think about them. “I’ll tell her.”

He isn’t sure why he makes the promise, but it feels right, and he’d much rather trust his instincts than anything Spectre feeds him. They should have let him die, he decides. At least then they’d have secured his loyalty.

Silva pushes Mr. White’s chair back as he hacks into the computer system. If there are more videos, he wants to see them. Wants to know just what he’s abandoning. _What I do now, I do for myself_.

How the times have changed him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a deleted scene, Silva swipes all the data from Mr. White's computers and wipes them. I couldn't fit the scene in without being too rambly.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond meets Silva. Silva meets Bond. And then they make out?

**Chapter Five**

_Mother walks down the halls with her shoulders straight and head held high, like a general going to battle. She barks an order, and Tiago tries not to stare. Her voice is harsher than he’s ever heard it._

_She’s been pacing, frustrated with something. Tiago wishes he knew what it was, wishes he knew how to fix it and make her smile again. The world is so much brighter when she smiles._

_He heaves a sigh and turns back to his computer. Numbers flash across the screen, and he takes solace in them. The numbers are not disappointed in him._

 

Bond allows himself to relax as he flies to Altaussee. With no one chasing him, he has the time to contemplate what he’s seen in Italy.

Franz is alive. More than that, he’s heading the organization M would have him tear apart.

That can’t be coincidence.

After landing, he rents a car and heads into the mountains, mind preoccupied with his situation.

Thinking back, he remembers the photographs from Skyfall and shakes his head. How fitting that Franz’s face had been burned out. It couldn’t be more poetic. Bond makes a face as he drives across the Austrian countryside, toward the cabin where Mr. White was last seen.

With any luck, he’ll find him before Mr. Hinx does.

The journey is taxing—one flight, one long drive, and a final excursion by boat across a frozen landscape. By the time he reaches the cabin, he’s almost too exhausted to function. A pity he doesn’t have the time to rest.

He can rest after Mr. White has given him his secrets.

 

Bond watches his breath fog the air as he walks across the deck. Pulling out his gun, he pushes on the front door, and makes a noise of curiosity when it opens. This could be good news for him, or it could mean that the assassins have beaten him here.

It’s unlikely, given his head start. But he won’t count on that when Franz is still alive.

Nothing is certain anymore.

The gun in his hand is a comfort as he explores the cabin. Eerie silence surrounds him, and just he thinks it might drive him mad, a muffled tapping sounds from the kitchen. Bond creeps forward, across the dining room, jumping back when several birds fly into his face. He shakes his head, holding tight to the gun as he moves through Mr. White’s safe house.

There are cameras mounted on the walls, but if they were recording at one point, they don’t appear to be doing it anymore. Peculiar.

Bond peers through several doors before finding the mirror. It’s open, and he furrows his brow. That’s not a good sign.

He looks down, catching sight of blank computer screens and the limp Mr. White, and swears under his breath.

“You’re too late, James.” A too-familiar Portuguese lilt observes from behind him.

Mexico was right. The dead are rising. Bond whirls, gun still drawn, and gives a rough laugh, half in mirth, half in rue.

Raoul Silva stands at the back of the room, wearing a fitted white suit over a ludicrous patterned shirt. He holds a Beretta in one hand, pointed at him. But for the weariness in his face, he doesn’t look any different than he did the day they met. Before he can stop himself, Bond pictures it, tied to a chair on an evacuated island. His trousers feel a trifle too tight, and he stiffens.

_Think of something else._ Anything _else_.

“Life does cling to you.” He keeps his voice clipped and distant. He won’t let Silva know what he’s thinking, or what it’s doing to him.

Silva chuckles, but does not lower his aim. “So it does.”

Tilting his head toward the basement, Bond lets his curiosity get the better of him. “Did you kill him?”

“No.” Silva sighs and shakes his head, almost as though he feels bad about the answer. “He was already dead. Poison.”

Well, at least that will throw a wrench in Hinx’s day, when he arrives. Anything to ruin his plans, after that damned car chase.

“That’s unfortunate.” He says, meaning it, and then pauses. “So what now?”

The other man waves his free hand. “I came here to kill you.”

Of course he did. Bond smiles, and the humor reaches his eyes. “You won’t, any more than I’ll kill you.”

“Oh?” Silva cocks his head, waiting for an explanation.

Stepping forward, he lowers his gun and holsters it behind his back.

He approaches, almost careless. Circling him, the agent leans in until their breath mingles. He can smell traces of his cologne, all tropical spice and luxury. Bond forces his mind out of the fog and to task. “Because…we’re the last two rats. I’m the only person in the world who understands you.”

A thrill shoots through him. This isn’t a game, for all he’s playing the dead man.

With a shudder, Silva drops his hand. “Are you, now?”

“Hm.” Bond lets his eyes drop to Silva’s mouth. It tempted him on the island, when the other man had him captured, and it tempts him now. If he leans any closer, their lips will touch, and he isn’t sure he can keep a level head with that thought. “We can either eat each other…”

Silva closes the distance between them, reaching for Bond’s collar. Bond sees white, and his hands are on the other man’s face, cradling his jaw. His fingers toy with the fringe of the blond’s hair, and he lets Silva pull him closer.

“Or we can eat everyone else.” The ex-agent murmurs into the kiss, sending chills down Bond’s spine.

Grazing his teeth along Silva’s lower lip, he moans when he gains access. The blond snakes a velvet tongue along his mouth, stroking and searching. The metallic tang of his prosthetic jaw is almost sweet on Bond’s palate. Firm, _frenzied_ , he heaves into the kiss, deepening the touch and lowering one hand to curl around the other man’s neck.

Bond’s chest erupts in flame as Silva leads him to the wall, steadying himself between it and his chest. The agent breaks away from his mouth to pepper kisses down his neck, whispering his real name like a prayer. “Tiago.”

Silva stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. He groans deep in his throat, demanding. “Say it again.”

“ _Tiago_.” Bond says again, and he thinks that he’ll do anything he asks of him in that moment, if only to taste him one more time.

And in his arms, mouths slanted against one another, Tiago Rodrigues is reborn.

“ _Eu adoro-te, pequeno rato_.” He whispers between kisses, reaching up to twine his fingers with Bond’s. “ _Eu preciso de você_.”

_I adore you, little rat. I need you_.

The words in Tiago’s native tongue send Bond over the edge. He grunts and presses himself against the other man, kissing him over and over again. With a hiss, the other man breaks away. “Easy, James. Some scars don’t heal.”

He blinks, furrowing his brow through the fog, and remembers how their last encounter ended.

“My apologies.” Bond eases him back into the kiss, careful not to press him too hard against the wall.

Tiago’s tongue sweeps its way back into his mouth, and the world goes white again. Bond loses his breath as he reaches up to cup his jaw. Needy fingers twine in the ex-agent’s hair, desperate gasps escape his throat, and he may as well be a green schoolboy for all he rocks into him.

Because right now, pressed against him, it doesn’t matter that he’s James fucking Bond, British spy and master assassin. It doesn’t matter that he’s had hundreds of women and dozens of men in his bed, that he’s never once lost his head over a kiss.

All that matters is letting this dead man pull him closer, claiming him as his own. Bond closes his eyes, losing himself to the heat. For a few precious moments, he forgets about his mission, forgets about M, forgets his own damn name.

“Come away with me, James.” Tiago pulls back with a heaving pant. “Stay with me.”

“Yes…” It’s the only word he knows anymore, the only word he can think, when Tiago is drinking him in with darkened eyes and tousled hair. “Anything you want.”

He’s so aroused a stiff wind might send him off.

Tiago reaches down to stroke his inseam, and Bond arches his back with a wanton gasp. Electric fire rages through his body, pulsing to his erection. When he drops his hand, cupping the other man in his palm, Tiago is just as desperate as he is. His cock twitches through the fabric of his trousers, tickling Bond’s flesh.

“We should go.” Tiago kisses the side of Bond’s mouth.

Humming, he forces himself to step back. It _would_ be in poor taste to devour the blond in the recently-deceased Mr. White’s cabin. “Your hotel or mine?”

And then they’re kissing again, and nothing else matters but the touch and the heat and the promise of forever.

 

They manage to keep their hands to themselves during the elevator ride, but their eyes are dark and heavy with lust. Bond reaches into his pocket for the room key just as Tiago leans toward his ear. “Let’s see who ends up on top, eh?”

The image sends a livewire down his spine. Bond stops breathing for a long moment, caught up in the fantasy. It’s the island all over again, with no restraints, no rules, and no country to defend.

He barely has the door opened when he turns and attacks Tiago’s mouth, nipping and sucking on his lower lip. It may as well be his first kiss, may as well be his last kiss, for all he groans into it.

Tiago melts into him as he slams the door shut behind them, guiding Bond backwards toward the bed. He shrugs his bag off his shoulder and wraps the arm around his agent’s waist, caressing his back. “ _Dança comigo, querido_.”

“You’re a romantic.” He pulls back from Tiago’s mouth to accuse with a fond smirk.

“Mm.” The blond reaches for Bond’s hands and clasps them in his, twining their fingers, repeating the plea in English. “Dance with me, darling.”

And he’ll do anything for him. Bond straightens, placing one hand on Tiago’s shoulder blade and holding the other out in position. Smiling, Tiago lets him take the lead, and slides his hand up Bond’s arm to rest on his shoulder.

There’s no music, but that doesn’t matter. He glides forward into a smooth waltz, Tiago matching his every move. If he stumbles, Bond doesn’t notice, caught up in staring into the ex-agent’s twinkling eyes.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Bond noses his way to his ear, voice rough and needy. “Something you’ve never told anyone.”

Tiago’s lips jump up with his smile. “My grandmother really did have an island.”

“Did she?” He sends Tiago twirling out, and back in, dropping his hands to cup either side of his face. Bond brings their mouths together for the briefest of kisses. “And the rats?”

“All true.” The blond whispers. With a breathy laugh, he moves in closer and pushes against Bond’s chest. When the agent falls back onto the bed, Tiago crawls atop him, kissing him deeply. “But I would much rather eat everyone else this time around.”

Reaching up to thread his fingers through Tiago’s hair, Bond can’t help but agree. “I want you.”

He kisses along Bond’s jawline. “Then _take me_ , 007.”

In the space of a breath, he has the ex-agent flipped on his back, toying with the buttons of his suit. Before he rips them off, he glances at his lover’s face. “Was this terribly expensive?”

“I’ll manage.” Tiago runs his hand along the back of Bond’s neck. Sitting up, he presses a kiss to his temple, and then another. Leaning back down, he grins. “Do what you will with me, James. I’m yours.”

It’s all the permission Bond needs. He tears the jacket off, frantically undressing him between wild kisses. The more they touch, the more they hunger, and they lose themselves to the frenzy, stroking and thrusting in time. The night lasts forever and it barely lasts a moment. They are everything, they are nothing. It’s perfect and it’s messy, and it’s beyond anything they could have imagined.

The contradictions drive them mad all over again in one another’s arms, and when they exhaust their lust, they collapse into each other, heaving as they drift away into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry not sorry, I deleted the porn. The chapter was pushing it length-wise as it was.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond wants to kill Franz, but really, who doesn't?

**Chapter Six**

_When the Chinese come for him, he knows that she will rescue him. Knows that she won’t be long. That she’ll break down their doors and destroy them from the inside out to reach him, just as he would for her. He’s her prized agent. She’ll come for him._

_Mother is only a breath away._

_But weeks pass, and she doesn’t come. The torture increases with every day. What do the British want? What does he know? What does_ she _know?_

_He doesn’t tell them. The pain is worse with each passing moment, but he keeps her secrets._

_She’s coming._

 

Tiago wakes to an empty bed. He blinks for several moments, hoping that he hasn’t imagined the entire encounter. When his body protests his stretch, he smiles. It’s all the proof he needs to know that last night wasn’t a half-hysterical, entirely-obsessed dream. Rolling out of bed, he stumbles to the bathroom.

The door is closed, but that hardly matters now.

Opening it, he pauses at the sight of Bond, clad only in a towel, shaving with a straight razor. “I should have known you’d be so traditional.”

He looks back, eyes sharp as his humor. “Does it surprise you?”

“Not at all.” Tiago—and it’s strange to think of himself as Tiago after all this time—wraps his arms around Bond’s stomach, pulling him to his chest. He stares at their reflection in the mirror and hums, pressing a kiss to the agent’s shoulder. “We make a lovely picture.”

There’s a zing as Bond runs the razor along his neck. He relaxes into Tiago’s hold. “Yes.”

Content to hold his 00, Tiago watches him shave with the precision of a practiced barber. He doesn’t know how long Bond has been shaving this way, but his skill shows. The motion is almost hypnotic, and he loses time to the sight. When Bond washes the excess shaving cream from his face, Tiago presses a kiss to his cheek. “The organization you’re after is called Spectre.”

“How—?”

“I was a part of it.” He looks away from their reflection and Bond’s accusing gaze. “I’m not proud.”

The agent doesn’t move from Tiago’s hold, and he takes that as a good sign. “Are you still loyal to them?”

“No.” Glancing back, he wills Bond to see his sincerity. “They brought me back when I would have died, but I owe them nothing. I…would be honored to help you take them down.”

Bond turns around, touching Tiago’s face with a hesitant hand. “Can I trust you?”

“If you can’t, you can’t trust anyone.”

He touches their foreheads together, voice low. “Don’t make me regret this.”

If he had any lingering loyalties to Blofeld, they’d disappear with the plea. Tiago noses his way to Bond’s mouth, kissing him rough and deep. “ _Meu pequeno rato_.”

A groan, and his agent is trailing a hand down his bare chest, tweaking a nipple. He gasps and pulls Bond toward the shower. Tiago unties the towel and lets it drop to the floor just as Bond hooks his fingers in the blond’s pants.

Their tongues dance, stroking and scavenging for each spot that elicits a moan. Bond puts his palm on his chest, pressing just so and urging him into the shower. Tiago follows the agent’s lead, tugging him close and rocking their erections together. He closes the curtain behind them, turning the knob and hissing when the hot spray of water hits them.

Bond presses him against the wall, breaking away from his mouth to drop kisses down his throat to the point where shoulder meets neck. Tiago throws his head back, giving him free access to his body.

He wants this, will do anything for this, and relishes the indisputable fact that Bond feels the same way.

They’ve consumed one another, after all. All that’s left is to eat everyone else.

 

“Is there anything useful on this?” Bond asks, handing him Sciarra’s ring. It’s been hours since he woke, and they’re only half-dressed. The remnants of breakfast wait on the desk in the corner of the room, untouched for what feels like an eternity.

Tiago takes it, raising his eyebrows. His own ring had a number of useful things embedded into the code. This will likely be no different. “Maybe.”

He pulls the laptop from his bag, pushing near-empty plates out of his way to set up. Bond watches, heated eyes tracking his every movement. There’s no telling if he trusts Tiago not to betray him.

It’s all the warning he’ll get, and as he switches on the laptop, he vows that when he earns the agent’s trust, he’ll never break it. “While I’m in my element, darling, would you like me to delete the Smart Blood files?”

“You know about that?” He sinks onto the bed, watching with a harsh curiosity.

As he examines the ring, placing it on a reading panel plugged into his laptop, Tiago smirks. “They thought I wouldn’t find mine. As far as they know, I’m still in Macau.”

“I’m sure the weather is nicer.” Bond pulls his lips back in an impertinent smile.

“It’s lovely. We should holiday when we’re done with them.” Silva presses several keys, pulling up the ring’s microchip, and glances back in triumph. “Define ‘useful’.”

Bond’s eyebrow jumps. “Anything that proves that Franz Oberhauser is still alive.”

“You’re in luck, then.” He turns, beckoning Bond to the screen. Names and pictures fill the screen, all revealing the organization’s deepest secrets. “This is everything you could want to know about Spectre, including its leader Ernst Stavro Blofeld…born Franz Oberhauser.”

With a snort, Bond raises his eyebrows. “Catchy name.”

Leaning back, he waves a hand at the ring. “I’m impressed. Mine didn’t have half of this information.”

Dropping a hand to his shoulder, 007 gives a gentle squeeze. “Good boy.”

“Is that how you thank me?” Tiago asks, pulling Bond into his lap and kissing his chin. “I’ve found you a veritable gold mine, and you mock me.”

“Only a little.” He murmurs into Tiago’s mouth. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

Bond smiles against his lips and pulls back. “Send this to Q, will you? If they have proof that Oberhauser’s alive, M might not send the dogs after me.”

It hurts to hear the codename refer to someone else, but the moment passes, and Tiago focuses on the matter at hand. “James, you should know that you can’t trust MI6 after the merger.”

“That’s why you encrypt the file.” Bond’s expression tells more than his words. He already knows this. “You’re the only one to successfully hack Q’s files without his knowledge. Surely you can send this to him without anyone else finding out.”

Tiago smiles and leans forward to kiss him. “I’m flattered you think so highly of me.”

The agent flashes a lopsided smile. “I always give credit where it’s due.”

“I’ll send the files.” His face warms with the flattery, and he turns to save the data into a single file. Bond moves behind him, dressing as he waits. Tiago spares a glance backwards, admiring the agent’s torso as the muscles ripple beneath his shirt.

Later, he’ll tear his clothing off. For now, they have a mission.

He takes his time, thinking through every step of the plan and taking care to make the document unreadable to anyone but Q. Laughing at his own wit, he titles the document ‘postcard’, after Bond’s conversation with the boy. Numbers and letters flash across the screen as he works, hiding the truth behind walls of nonsense that Mr. Denbigh will never be able to penetrate.

At last, he signs the document with a flourish and sends it to Q’s work e-mail address. Denbigh will be less likely to pry into official gibberish than something sent to the boy’s personal accounts.

“I need to tell you something. The head of the Joint Security Service, Max Denbigh…” Tiago reaches for his shirt. He takes his time with the words, saying each deliberately.

“C?” Bond packs his bag, focused on any task that will keep him busy while Tiago works.

“He gave me the orders to kill you.”

Bond straightens and glances at him sideways. “So I was right not to trust the prick.”

Buttoning his shirt, he smiles. “You have impeccable instincts, darling.”

“Does he know where to find Oberhauser?” The agent tosses his bag in front of the door. “I’d rather kill him sooner than later.”

That’s a good question, and he doesn’t have an answer. Tiago glances at his computer, and then back at him. “I think I can find out, if you do something for me.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” Bond’s eyebrows twitch upwards as he glides forward.

Tiago takes a moment to kiss him, and then pulls his lips back in a sly smile. “Order us something to eat. This may take a while.”

“Is that all?” He returns the kiss, deepening it and sliding his arms up Tiago’s sides.

With a moan, the blond nods and reaches up to stroke Bond’s cheek with a trembling hand.

They hold one another for a long moment, slanting their mouths against one another, and Bond pulls away, sighing. “I’ll have that up in a moment.”

“I should get to work.” Tiago breathes, but he stares at Bond’s lips with dark, hooded eyes.

“You should.” He smiles, kissing him again. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Breaking away, the blond takes a deep breath and presses his fingers to Bond’s mouth. “Be a dear and order more than the Macallan, will you?”

Bond’s eyes sparkle as he laughs. “I make no promises.”

He swats the agent’s arse as he turns around, sliding into the chair in front of his laptop. Stretching, he closes the postcard file and opens up a new tab. “Let’s see what you know, Mr. Denbigh.”

The world, including Bond, disappears as he works. Focused on the screen in front of him, he searches through Denbigh’s files—starting at his work computers and finding a connection to his personal desktop. In the back of his mind, he can hear Bond placing an order for lunch, and his stomach growls in anticipation.

“Hush,” he tells himself, fingers flying across the keyboard.

After several moments, he smiles.

There’s the Spectre files. He’s in.

The files are encrypted, naturally, but Denbigh isn’t as skilled a hacker as he would like to think. Tiago has the code cracked in a manner of moments, and he filters through the information, until at last he finds a satellite image of a base in the middle of the desert.

“Where are you?” The barely escape his lips, whispering into the silence as Bond reads on the bed.

A few more strokes at the keyboard, and he laughs. Morocco. Now, if only he can pinpoint the exact coordinates, they’ll have everything they need.

“Care for a drink?” Bond offers him a glass of scotch, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he glances at the screen. “Morocco?”

“That’s what it looks like.” Tiago takes the glass with a smile. “Thank you.”

“The food will be here soon.” He pulls back, taking a sip from his own glass. “Don’t work too hard.”

Setting the glass to the side, Tiago turns back to his work. It should only take him a few more minutes, and…

There!

“Got it.” In his triumph, he downs the glass in one go, scooting back and beckoning for Bond.

The agent looks at the screen and grins. “A cause for celebration, I’d say.”

He holds out his glass for another shot of the Macallan. “I’ll drink to that.”


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Hinx catches up with our intrepid heroes.

**Chapter Seven**

_Realization dawns over the course of months. She isn’t coming. She’s left him there to die, cut off ties and abandoned him to his fate. She has more soldiers who will take his place. He’s nothing to her, has never been anything._

_That hurts most of all._

_Tiago waits for his captors to leave and, wrestling with his bonds, manages to break the tooth containing his cyanide capsule. There’s only one way out of this, if she’s determined to betray him. Only one way to end the pain._

_Biting into the capsule, Tiago screams._

_In his mind, he’s still screaming._

 

Bond walks down the train, smiling at an attendant as he heads to their car. The flight to Morocco was uneventful, a fact for which he’s grateful. He hasn’t quite had the chance to really think about the reality of his situation, hasn’t yet processed that Franz is not only alive, but trying to kill him. It’s almost too surreal to imagine.

And that doesn’t even touch on Tiago.

A muffled moan sounds from the other side of the door. Bond furrows his brow as he slides it open, and his heart aches at what he sees.

Tiago leans against the wall, whimpering in his sleep. Scattered whispers in Portuguese slip past his lips, and Bond catches just enough to know that he is dreaming of the Chinese and their torture.

“Wake up.” He places a gentle hand on Tiago’s shoulder, sinking into the seat beside him. “It’s not real. _Tiago_.”

The blond twitches, and his heartbeat escalates. A beat passes and he cries out, straightening as he wakes. Panting, he turns his head to stare at Bond’s hand, eyes wide until he realizes where he is. Tiago closes his eyes and collapses into the agent’s arms.

“Shh.” There’s little he can do to comfort him. Some scars never heal.

“It burns.” Tiago whispers, breath tickling Bond’s neck. “Oh, god, it burns.”

He runs a hand through his lover’s hair. “It’s all over.”

Sighing, the ex-agent pulls back to shake his head. “It still burns. I can feel it. The pain is exquisite.”

“Show me.” If he can’t comfort, he can distract.

Tiago’s eyes drop to his mouth, and he leans in, taking his lower lip between his teeth. He doesn’t bite down, so Bond shifts, slanting his mouth against the other man’s.

Pulling the blond into his lap, he raises his free hand to stroke his face.

“ _Oh_ , Mr. Bond.” Tiago breathes the words against Bond’s cheek. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I think I do.” With a soft chuckle, Bond deepens the kiss, taking the words from Tiago’s lips as though he can swallow his very soul. They move as one, fingers tangling in hair and clothing, hands tracing the lines of their waists.

The train rumbles in the distance, and he breaks away with a gasp. “Does it still hurt?”

“Mm.” Tiago’s teeth graze his earlobe, and he presses a swift kiss to the pressure point right beneath it. “I haven’t dreamt of them in years. Not since…”

Bond drops his hands to rest on the blond’s hips, drawing gentle circles with his thumbs. Tiago moans, head rolling to the side, and the agent smiles at his handiwork.

“If you think I can concentrate with your hands doing tha- _ah!_ ” He cuts off as Bond’s hands drift to his groin. “ _James_.”

“I rather like you this way.” Bond whispers, rocking his hips up into Tiago’s arse.

And the blond moans, pupils blown wide with lust. “ _Toque-me_ , James, _touch me_.”

He complies.

 

“We need a plan.” Bond buttons his shirt and repositions his gun at his back.

Tiago thinks for a moment, running a hand through his tousled hair. “We could say I’ve captured you, bring you to him myself. He may want to kill you himself, at this point.”

“Will he take the bait?”

Pursing his lips, the blond shrugs. “I’ve only met him once. He’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is; I can tell you that.”

A chuckle escapes his throat. “He’s smart enough.”

“He’s going to torture you.” Tiago leans forward, touching Bond’s face.

The feelings are too deep, too fast, and Bond looks away. He hasn’t felt this way for too long, since _her_. The thought frightens him. “That can’t be helped.”

“Don’t ask me to watch that.” Kissing him sweetly, Tiago drops his hand to clasp Bond’s.

“Better me than the both of us. You’ve had your fair share of torture.” He lets him weave their fingers together. “If you take me in, will he suspect you?”

There’s a long pause as Tiago thinks. “I don’t know.”

Toying with his watch, Bond sighs. “If he does, he’ll torture you too. I may not be able to free us both.”

“Then focus on you. I can take care of myself, James.”

Of course he can. But that doesn’t mean Bond doesn’t feel the need to protect him. His lover has seen too much torture in his life. Whatever Oberhauser has planned for him, the blond doesn’t need to take part in it.

He brings their joined hands to his lips, brushing them against Tiago’s knuckles. “You’ll take me in. If he suspects you, run. Get out of there, and leave me.”

“You know I can’t do that.” Tiago takes his hand back, narrowing his eyes. “We get out together or not at all.”

“You’re a romantic.” He already knows that, but the accusation stands.

His blond smiles and leans forward to kiss him. “We’ll figure something out. Now, come, it’s getting late. Supper is waiting.”

 

It’s Bond who insists on changing before dinner, and he prides himself on the decision when Tiago joins him at the table, off-white suit tailored to fit his every movement. He can’t help but stare.

“See something you like?” Tiago eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Yes.” And he brings their lips together for a quick kiss before taking a seat. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

A waiter takes their drink orders and disappears to the kitchens.

Reaching out to take Bond’s hand in his, Tiago strokes his thumb. His eyes rake over the agent, admiring the view. “You look positively criminal, querido.”

“Oh?”

Tiago leans forward, whispering against Bond’s mouth. “I could eat you alive.”

They kiss for only a moment before he pulls back. “Tell me something: Spectre, Oberhauser. Why betray them?”

Several moments pass before the blond speaks, voice low. “They told me to kill you.”

“Was I that important to you?” Bond glances at their twined fingers. “Before you saw me again?”

“You’ve no idea how important you are.” Tiago’s voice is rough with emotion. “But…to tell the truth, I left them because they brought me back when I would have died.”

The answer surprises him. “You wanted to die?”

“I wanted her to end it.” There’s a hint of pain in his eyes, but he speaks through it. “Of course, I knew you never would have let that happen.”

“I was protecting her.”

A bitter smile crosses his face. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

He reaches to caress Tiago’s cheek. “So that’s it, then? They brought you back, and you betrayed them?”

“It was a little more complicated than that.” Their drinks arrive and Tiago brings his glass to his lips, ghosting along the rim. It shouldn’t be so alluring, but it is, and Bond closes his eyes to resist taking hold of the other man.

Their waiter leaves the bottle behind, wishing them a pleasant evening.

Bond forces his attention back to their conversation. “You wanted me.”

“I still do.” The blond drops his gaze and toys with Bond’s fingers. After a moment, he looks back up. “I used Spectre to seek my revenge. The organization meant nothing to me. But you…you are everything, little rat.”

“Romantic.” Looking down at their entwined hands, he catches the reflection off the bottle to the side and pulls away, just as the man reaches them.

The assassin from Italy kicks the table aside, and Bond swings, striking him between the eyes. Hinx slams him against the wall, pointing a gun at his head, but he pushes the assassin’s arm up, letting the shots fire into the ceiling.

As Mr. Hinx grabs him by the neck, Tiago rips him away, sending him into the table on the other side of the walkway. Bond takes half a moment to breathe before leaping onto their assailant, pulling out his gun and wrapping one arm around his neck in a chokehold.

Tiago pulls his lips back in a grim smile and points his gun at Hinx. “Don’t touch my things.”

And he fires into his gut, barely missing the agent clinging to his back. Bond shoots a round into Hinx’s skull before hopping to the ground and looking up at Tiago, catching his breath and arching a brow. “Your things?”

Pulling the tie from his jacket and urging Bond closer, the blond purrs into his ear. “ _Mine_.”

A number of wait staff appear, eyes wide at the sight of the dead man on the floor. Bond shrugs and slips his gun back into place, straightening his jacket and flashing them a cordial smile. “We’ll take our supper in our room, I think.”

Eyes dark with bloodlust, Tiago nods trails a hand up Bond’s chest and smiles. “Yes, I think that would be best.”

The waiters stare at them, dumbfounded, as they turn to leave.

“Sir?” One of them dares the question. “What happened here?”

They glance at one another for a moment, each daring the other to speak first. The moment passes, and Bond turns back. “He was an assassin, come to kill us. We beat him to the job.”

Stammering for a moment, the waiter shakes his head. “We’re going to have to let you off at the next stop. We can’t have you endangering the rest of the guests.”

“Of course.” Tiago says smoothly, and Bond longs to hear his voice scratched raw. “That won’t be a problem.”

When they get back to their cabin, dinner is the last thing on their minds. And if the train passengers hear screaming from their room in the time it takes for their supper to arrive—well, then—they say nothing.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tiago is protective of his vendetta and Franz Oberhauser is petty.

**Chapter Eight**

_When he wakes in a hospital room, Tiago’s first thought is that he is in hell._

_His insides burn as much as they had when he first bit into the capsule, and it’s that more than anything that tells him he is still alive._

_The doctors tell him that the cyanide ate away the bone of his jaw, give him a prosthetic and teach him how to speak through it. They nurse him back to health, send him on his way, and as they release him into the world, he comes to the only remaining conclusion._

_Tiago Rodrigues is dead._

 

They leave the train one stop ahead of schedule, arriving at a small town on the outskirts of the desert. Bond manages to steal a car, hotwiring it to take them the rest of the way. Taking the passenger seat, Tiago pulls out his laptop and typing the coordinates into his GPS system. His frown deepens as he works.

He can’t stop thinking about his nightmare, can’t stop re-living the agony, and can’t help but wonder what Blofeld—Oberhauser—has in mind for Bond. The thought makes his stomach churn.

It’s hours into the drive when he touches Bond’s shoulder. “Stop the car.”

“We can’t be there yet.” The agent glances at him, confused. But he stops it anyway.

“We’re not.” Tiago curls one hand around Bond’s neck and pulls him close, kissing him urgently. Parting his lips, he scoots closer, stroking the agent’s face with a reverence. He pays worship to his mouth, baring his soul with every touch. When Bond returns the kiss, Tiago pulls back to whisper. “Whatever happens next, James, whatever I say in there….”

Bond’s fingers graze his temple. “You talk as though we’re not getting out of there.”

“There’s always the possibility.” The nightmare has him paranoid, he knows, but one of them has to be realistic.

Shaking his head, the agent pulls him in for another searing kiss. “We’re both leaving, alive and intact. I promise you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Tiago breaks away from Bond’s mouth to kiss a path down his neck. He needs this, needs to feel him flush beneath his fingers. Needs to know it’s real.

The agent tilts his head back, accommodating him. “I never do.”

Even as they march into certain death, he is cocky. The blond cannot help but smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Do. And when we get back to London, you’ll owe me a drink.” Bond pulls away at last, winking as he starts the car again.

“I’ll owe you more than that.” He leaves his hand on the back of the agent’s head, toying with the hair at the base of his neck.

The rest of the drive is quiet, leaving them both to contemplate the state of their relationship and what’s to come.

According to the map, they’re ten miles away from Spectre’s base when the car runs out of gas.

Bond shakes his head with a frustrated sigh. “Damn.”

Tiago pulls out his phone and shakes his head. “No signal.”

“A fine pair we make.” Bond laughs, eyes bitter.

He reaches to weave their fingers together. “We’ll figure something out.”

 

It’s nearly an hour before the other car approaches, engine whirring. Tiago glances up from his laptop and arches a brow. “We have company.”

Bond stops cleaning his gun long enough to follow the blond’s gaze. “We’re expected.”

“That puts a damper on things.” Tiago’s fingers fly across the keyboard. If Oberhauser suspects him, he’ll have the computer taken away. The responsible thing is to purge his files before giving the man a chance to decide.

It’s only business.

When he finishes, returning the computer to its default settings and setting a number of traps to ensure a meltdown should anyone attempt to access previous systems, Tiago packs the laptop away and smiles at his lover. He longs to kiss him, but it’s best not to let Oberhauser’s lackeys know the extent of their relationship.

Bond winks, flashing a quick smile, as though he knows what Tiago is thinking.

The other car stops in front of them, and a man hops out of the driver’s seat to open the back door for them.

Best not to keep their host waiting. Tiago slings his bag over one shoulder and leaves the stolen car behind.

It’s time to meet Oberhauser face to face.

 

When the car comes to a stop in front of a large building, several armed men await them. One of Oberhauser’s assistants stands at the head of them, nodding as he welcomes them, proclaiming his excitement at having them there.

If he’s surprised by Tiago’s presence, he says nothing.

They confiscate their guns, and—as a precautionary move—Tiago’s bag, and he heaves an inward sigh. Oberhauser might not be as smart as he is, but he’s smart enough. And that’s a sign of trouble.

Still. They don’t ask for his phone, which gives him hope.

Oberhauser’s soldiers escort them to different rooms, and Tiago can’t help but feel a pang of regret to be separated from his agent. It’s standard protocol, of course, so he can’t complain, but he feels antsy anyway.

His room is beautiful, he must admit. A beige suit is hastily laid out on the bed, and he rolls his eyes. Oberhauser wants them to know who is in charge. Tiago sweeps his eyes across the room.

On the mantle, a single picture frame houses a photograph of him, standing beside Mother, and a chill of rage ripples down his spine.

Poor taste.

There’s a rubbish bin below the mantle, and he catches sight of a crumpled photograph in it. Bending over, Tiago picks it up and opens the paper. A lovely blonde girl stands smiling beside a very young Mr. White. It’s the same photograph from the video.

They didn’t expect him, Tiago realizes, and schools his face. He can use this to his advantage.

As he changes into the suit, he swings the jacket over his arm, subtly slipping his phone into the beige trousers. There must be cameras on him, and it’s best that his host not know that he’s left Tiago with a weapon.

4:00 can’t come soon enough, and when the armed escort knocks at his door, he is well past ready to leave. Tiago smooths the jacket and wrinkles his nose. It’s not to his exacting standards, another sign that Spectre wasn’t expecting him, but if Oberhauser wants them to play dress-up, he’ll cooperate. At least, for now.

The guard leads him to Bond’s door and he suppresses a smile to see the agent dressed in a dark suit tailored perfectly. The man looks delicious, and he longs to take his lover’s hand in his, to claim him before the whole organization. Resisting the urge, Tiago matches Bond’s stride as they walk across the Spectre compound.

The walk is brisk and bland. There’s little in the desert surrounding them to occupy his eyes.

At last, they reach the assistant who welcomed them, and he nods to the guards, sending them back to their business. Urging them to follow, he turns and heads across the walkway. “This is a very special place. He has requested that you enter it alone.”

“Of course,” Bond keeps his voice steady, but there’s a curtness that he can’t hide.

A man waits beside a door, holding a tray of champagne. Their assistant host offers them the drinks, and Tiago lets Bond decline on their behalf.

There’s a rule about accepting drinks in the house of an enemy.

The man opens the doors for them, sweeping a hand to beckon them inside. The lights are off, and Tiago stretches his shoulders before walking into the unknown.

He follows Bond into a dark, circular room. A pedestal in the center is dimly lit, accenting a large meteorite. Tiago takes the opportunity to roll his eyes. It’s superfluous, a second ludicrous show of power.

When he had Bond captured on his island, he didn’t need impressive monuments. He only needed facts.

“I think we’re meant to be impressed.” Bond whispers, and Tiago can hear his smile.

The agent walks toward the meteorite, no doubt scanning their surroundings. Tiago lingers behind, still disgusted by the show.

“Touch it.” A calm voice says in the darkness, and if he strains, he can recognize it as Oberhauser. “You can touch it if you want.”

He’ll decline the offer.

“It’s the Kartenhoff. The oldest meteorite in human possession. The very meteorite which made this crater.” A figure walks toward them, directly across from the pedestal, and when the light ghosts over his face, Tiago can recognize his former superior. “Think about it, James. So many years up there, alone, silent, building momentum until it chose to make its mark on earth. A huge, unstoppable force.”

Bond’s voice is dry. “Except it did stop, didn’t it? Right here.”

Tiago chokes on a laugh.

Irritation flickers across Oberhauser’s face, but only for a moment. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been looking forward to this…us here, together. A reunion.” A beat passes, and he tears his eyes away from Bond to nod at Tiago. “I’m so glad you could be here, too, Tiago.”

A coil of anger unfurls in his stomach at the sound of his name on that man’s tongue. He has no right to use it.

The doors open again, and Oberhauser motions toward them. “Shall we?”

As they walk back the way they came, entering another building and crossing through hallways, Tiago can’t help but think that their host is an amateur—a man who postures more than he threatens. It’s difficult to take him seriously when he relies on such flashy displays to prove his importance.

_He_ needed only the essentials. Oberhauser is a child in comparison.

“Welcome to information.” The man says at last. “Information is everything, is it not? For instance, you must know by now that the 00 program is officially dead. Which leads me to wonder why exactly you came here. So, James, why did you come?”

His agent doesn’t miss a beat. “I came here to kill you.”

Oberhauser smiles. “And I thought you came here to die.”

“Well, it’s all a matter of perspective.”

His smile turns tight. Oberhauser orders several guards to open the door in front of them.

They obey at once, and their host walks down a hall lined with two layers of men at computers. Tiago glances at them, and bites his tongue. They’re good at what they do, he can tell, but they wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to him if he wanted to play. And these are the men who, no doubt, have his laptop in their custody.

There’s little to be worried about.

Oberhauser stops in front of a computer, asking several questions before beckoning them closer. Tiago keeps his eyes and ears on the rest of the men in the room rather than M’s speech on disappearing spies.

There’s little chance of escape at this point, but he wouldn’t rule it impossible just yet.

“Well, James,” Oberhauser says when they stop watching the feed, and he begins his walk down the hall again. All around them, the men at the computers stand, waiting for his command. “It looks like you’re all alone. Not much more than a voyeur, are you?”

They reach the center of the hallway, and soldiers circle them, waiting for Oberhauser’s signal to move in.

“But you can’t see what’s right in front of you, can you? You came across me so many times, and yet you never saw me: Le Chiffre, Greene, even our dear Tiago here.”

It’s the first he’s so much at looked at him since welcoming them, Tiago notes. The man is obsessed.

“What’s your point?”

Oberhauser shrugs. “You interfered in my world, I destroyed yours. Or did you think it was coincidence that all the women in your life ended up dead? Vesper Lynd, for example. And then, of course, your beloved M. Gone forever.”

Something cold snaps behind Tiago’s eyes as he listens. The man can’t possibly be saying what he seems to be.

“ _Me_.”

He is. That won’t do at all.

Tiago holds his breath as one of the guards approaches, knocking Bond unconscious. As his lover collapses, he vows a second revenge.

M was _his_ job. _His_ life’s work. And if Oberhauser thinks he can take credit for it, he’ll pay with his life.

He’ll see to it himself.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is torture and Franz is super petty.

**Chapter Nine**

_For months, he lives in a squalor, desperate to survive another day. He introduces himself to his new landlord as Raoul Silva, and reminds himself that Tiago Rodrigues is dead. That he exists now only to make his way back to England, to MI6, and to her. He needs to look into her eyes, one more time._

_Needs to ask her why._

_When Blofeld finds him, he’s half dead. “I can help you, Tiago.”_

_The promise is tempting._

_“I can provide you resources. I can give you everything you need to get revenge. If…you work for me.”_

_And Silva agrees._

 

Light peers through Bond’s eyelids. Somewhere in the distance, someone is speaking. Judging by the accent, it’s Oberhauser, but Bond can’t muster up the will to listen. He blinks, and the white blur clears. He’s staring out a window. A lizard of some sort is crawling outside the glass.

As he shifts, Bond finds himself tied down. His vision clears and he glances down at his wrists, which have been shackled to a chair.

Looking up, he catches sight of Tiago, and breaths an inward sigh of relief. He’s seated several paces away from Oberhauser, examining his fingernails—decidedly not tied to a chair. If their host has torture in mind, it’s not for his blond.

Not yet, anyway.

“Awake at last, Mr. Bond?” Oberhauser says, looking away from Tiago with immediate purpose.

Bond says nothing.

“I was just telling Tiago the many virtues of torture.”

Tiago sighs dramatically, and looks at Oberhauser with reproach. “My name is Raoul Silva. It’s considered polite to address people by their preferred name, Mr. Blofeld.”

Oberhauser’s jaw tightens. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” Tiago says, and his eyes flicker to Bond. “I must say, however, that I find torture distasteful.”

“Understandable, considering your history.” Oberhauser turns back to the blond and smiles. “But you’ll find I have more pristine methods than the Chinese. This won’t be messy in the least. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

He taps away at the computer to his left, and the arms of Bond’s chair twist behind him, locking his wrists together. Stretching his fingers, the agent sets to untying his watch. The alarm is bound to be useful here.

“Now, James, I’m going to penetrate to the inside of your head. The first probe will play with your senses, your balance, your sight, your hearing. And then then fun begins…” Oberhauser taps at his keyboard, but his eyes are on Bond.

He relaxes into the chair, preparing himself for pain. “Well, get on with it, then. Nothing can be as painful as listening to you talk.”

“Very good.” If the taunt bothers their host, he doesn’t show it. His smile is clinical. “Let’s begin.”

A press of the keyboard, and there’s a whirring sound to Bond’s left as a probe makes its way to his cheek. Moments pass, and a miniscule drill bit touches his flesh, burrowing into his skull. There’s a split second of silence.

And then there’s nothing but agony.

The lights flicker, grow blurry, and then dark. The whirring of the probe is suddenly the roar of a rocket. He’s strapped down to a chair, but he’s whirling in space. And all the while, the machine drills deeper into him, a searing, spinning, stabbing sensation right into his nasal cavity.

Bond screams, but the sound is far away even though the pain is at the forefront of his mind. He’s no stranger to torture, but this is something unique, different.

There’s nothing like this.

He can’t hide from it, can’t let his mind drift away because it’s _in_ his mind, drilling into his very soul. When the drill retreats, he can still feel it, and he groans. Catching his breath, he blinks and tries to focus on Tiago, on anything else but the pain. _Make it stop_.

“And what, pray tell, did Mr. Bond do to deserve this?” Tiago asks, looking for all the world like a man asking about the weather. He waves first at the chair, and then the computer. “This is, as you say, _special_. Why waste it on a simple agent?”

Oberhauser’s face lights up as he scoots toward the blond. It’s as though he’s been waiting for this question since they arrived. “You know that James lost his parents when he was young, of course. And it was _my_ father who helped him through this difficult time.”

It’s difficult to concentrate, but Bond forces himself to listen.

“Over the course of two winters, he taught him how to fish, and climb, and hunt. He soothed the wounds of the poor little blue-eyed orphan. Asked me to treat him as a brother.” Oberhauser’s voice grows tight with each passing word, until he spits out the sentence. “ _My little brother_.”

Bond keeps his eyes on the ceiling. It helps calm his breathing, and it’s easier than staring at the man who should have been delighted to have a brother. He exhales and dares to ask the question burning in his brain. “So, you killed him?”

“Yes, I did.” Oberhauser’s voice is proud, and Bond imagines ripping out the man’s throat. “Do you know, Mr. Silva, what happens when a cuckoo hatches inside another bird’s nest?”

A flick of his fingers, and the watch comes untied.

“No.” Tiago sounds bored with the conversation. Good for him.

Still, Oberhauser answers. “It forces the other eggs out. And this cuckoo made me realize that my father’s life had to end. In a way, he’s responsible for the path I took.”

Irritation builds in Bond’s chest at the blame. He’s nothing more than a spoiled child, after all this time. Tugging on the watch, he lets it fall into his open palm and chuckles. “I’m hardly responsible for your choices, Franz.”

The reaction is immediate. Oberhauser stands, crossing the room with heavy steps. He stops in front of Bond, eyes tight with barely-concealed rage. “Franz Oberhauser died 20 years ago, in an avalanche alongside his father. The man you’re talking to now…the man inside your head…is _Ernst Stavro Blofeld_.”

“Whatever you prefer.” He keeps his answer clipped, impertinent.

Oberhauser points to his neck. “Now, if the needle finds the correct spot in the fusiform gyrus, you recognize no one. Of course…the faces of your women are interchangeable, aren’t they, James? You won’t know who they are. Just…passing faces on your way to the grave.”

“Then he won’t know you.” Tiago observes, pulling out his cell phone and toying with it.

“Take that away from him.” Oberhauser motions to one of his guards, who confiscates the phone. “We both know I can’t trust you with technology.”

Tiago shrugs. “A pity he should forget the mastermind behind his pain.”

“I’ll manage.” Their host says, and it’s almost a snarl. He heads back to his chair. Typing several commands into his keyboard, he turns back with a wicked smile. “Why don’t I let you do the honors, Raoul?”

“I’m not interested in your games.” Tiago doesn’t move from his spot, even when the guards approach him. “Thank you for the offer, but no thank you. I don’t believe in torture.”

The man grits his jaw for a moment, forcing himself to keep appearances. “I insist.”

One of the guards reaches for Tiago’s arm, pulling him up and leading him to the computer. “I thought you couldn’t trust me with technology.”

“All you have to do is press one button.” Oberhauser points to the keyboard. “Touch any other key, and I’ll be forced to kill you.”

The blond raises his eyebrows, risking a glance at Bond. “All this physical stuff, Mr. Bond, so dull.”

His lips twitch upwards with Tiago’s words. It’s an apology, of sorts. “Get on with it, Mr. Silva.”

Tiago hesitates for a moment before pressing the button. The whirring starts again as the probe unfurls to reach his neck.

Bond closes his eyes as it drills into him a second time.

It’s almost worse, knowing what’s coming. Bond’s hands shake, and he curls his fingers into claws, trying not to lose hold of the watch. The pain is astounding, tearing him apart from the inside and remaking him into a new image.

Clenching his teeth—he won’t scream this time; he won’t give Oberhauser the satisfaction—Bond grunts, whimpers, and tries to force his mind away from the agony.

The probe retracts, and there’s a moment of silence. He keeps his eyes closed as he catches his breath.

“Since you did the honors, why don’t you check on our Mr. Bond?” Oberhauser’s voice is self-satisfied, and Bond feels a measure of relief.

He knows the voice, can pinpoint it. But would he know the face it belongs to?

Footsteps echo across the room until a shadow leans over him. Hands touch either side of his face, forcing his head into position. “Mr. Bond?”

“Does he recognize you?” Oberhauser asks as Bond tightens his hold on the watch.

He takes a shaky breath and dares to open his eyes. There’s nothing but shadows for a long moment, as his vision clears. But when the world sharpens, his lips twitch upwards.

It’s Tiago.

“The watch.” Bond mouths, closing one eye in a swift wink. With one hand, he starts the timer.

Tiago leans forward, hand slipping down to take the watch, touching his free hand to his ear as though he hasn’t heard him. “What was that?”

“One minute.” The words barely escape his lips.

The blond straightens and turns back to Oberhauser with a shrug. “It would seem you’ve failed. He still knows me.”

Oberhauser frowns and looks back to his computer. “No matter. We’ll try again.”

As the drill moves in on him, Bond counts the seconds. “Tempus fugit.”

“Did you say something, Mr. Bond?” Their host asks, turning away from his keyboard to stare.

Louder, he repeats the mantra. The drill is almost fully extended. “Tempus fugit.”

“I can’t hear you.” Oberhauser says, shaking his head in frustration. “Louder, if you please, Mr. Bond.”

Glancing at Tiago, he prays that he will know what to do. “I said: doesn’t time fly.”

The watch sings across the floor as Tiago tosses it toward Oberhauser and the computer. Their host has the briefest of seconds to look down at it before it explodes, sending him flying backward and the computer up in flames.

Immediately, the latches holding him to the chair release, and he sits up as Tiago strikes one of the soldiers, snatching the gun from his hands and firing into the rest of them. He tosses the rifle to Bond and dashes forward to grab a second one for himself.

They run out of the room hand in hand, relishing the contact they haven’t had since arriving at the compound. Down the hallway, Bond kicks open the door, giving Tiago the time to fire into another guard’s chest.

Bond bends down to pick up the gun he left behind, and fires at the men in the distance. Tiago sweeps his gaze across the compound, searching for more assassins. An alarm blazes in the distance, and Bond shouts for Tiago to take cover behind one of the buildings.

The blond laughs instead, firing into several more guards.

 _Always has to have the last laugh_ , he thinks, almost indulgently.

Backing up behind the shelter of a nearby building, Bond looks for an opening, and smiles when he catches it. The fuel line. Taking aim, he shoots it, and it goes up in flames.

Free hand lacing around Tiago’s fingers, Bond shoots his way out of the compound. They take turns firing at the men approaching them, putting them down before they have the chance to shoot at them.

Racing through the fence, they head up a hill, making their way to the helicopter pad in the distance. Oberhauser’s men fall almost in formation as Bond and Tiago race along the path, shooting anything that moves.

“Let’s go home.” Bond says as they reach the flight pad. Corpses surround them.

It’s a twisted paradise.

Behind them, the entire compound goes up, smoke rising and clouding their vision.

Tiago coughs, grinning wildly as he pulls Bond close for a quick kiss. “Let’s. It’s not over yet.”

“Not remotely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a deleted scene, Franz mentions that he has torture planned for Tiago too, but he wasn't prepared to hurt the both of them, so Tiago will have to wait until they've killed Bond. I tried to fit the scene in, but everywhere I tried, it felt shoehorned and contrived, so I ultimately cut it.


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hacker bros meet face-to-face. Hack-off ensues. Or does it?

**Chapter Ten**

_Recovery is slow. Physically, he’s well enough to adjust to a routine lifestyle, if not the high-impact career choice of a spy. Psychologically, however, he has a long way to go. It doesn’t matter that Blofeld’s kept his word and provided him with the finest computers money can buy, his heart isn’t in the work._

_He misses home, misses MI6, and misses Mother most of all. But she must die the next time they meet, Silva knows it. The knowledge doesn’t make his pain go away._

_For now, he sets to task, and lets Blofeld do the thinking for him._

 

The flight back to London gives them a deserved break. With the Spectre compound in flames, the most immediate threat is Max Denbigh—C, as Bond calls him—and the Nine Eyes program.

Their entire situation is surreal. Tiago can’t hold back a bitter smile. Here he is, days out of the hospital, returning to London to help the very people he would have killed months ago. He laughs to himself. _A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into_.

But with 007’s hand in his, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bond’s head rolls to the side, resting on Tiago’s shoulder as he sleeps. Smiling fondly, the blond leans into him. His fingers itch for a computer, but there wasn’t time in the escape to grab one. They’ll have to swing by a shop before heading to the safe house, he decides. There’s no way he’s going into battle empty-handed.

“Sleep, darling.” He runs one thumb down the side of Bond’s hand. “You’re going to need it.”

With a grunt, the agent stirs, mumbling. “If you think I’ve slept for one bloody minute, you’re insane.”

“Well, that’s a given.” Tiago laughs and presses a kiss into the agent’s hair, letting his mouth linger. “We’re an hour out of London.”

He yawns, sitting up and groaning as his muscles adjust. “We need to get through to M.”

“It’ll have to wait until I can get my hands on a computer.”

Frowning, Bond heaves an impatient sigh. “First thing when we get off.”

The promise makes him feel better. He feels naked without one.

 

When they land, it falls to the third place, after renting a car and finding a shop. In an ideal world, he’d build his own computer. Theirs is not an ideal world, and he’s forced to choose something pre-made. Tiago glances at the options, ignoring the way Bond taps his foot behind him. “Patience is a virtue, James.”

“The longer we wait, the longer C has to undo everything we’re working toward.”

He spots a decent brand and hails the woman behind the counter. It’s not perfect, but it will suit his purposes. “I’ll take this model, please.”

“Of course.” And she’s off, fetching them the laptop.

“How long will it take to set up a connection?” Bond leans forward, trapping him between the agent’s chest and the counter. His lips brush his ear, breath ghosting along his flesh.

Tiago doesn’t turn, as much as he wants to. Doesn’t show how the contact affects him. “Longer than you’d prefer.”

“Damn.” He pulls back when the woman returns with the computer box.

She scans it with a smile, taking one of Tiago’s cards. “You’re all set. Thank you for choosing us today!”

They bid her a hasty farewell, and the blond has the laptop unboxed before they reach the car, tossing the cardboard into a nearby rubbish bin. “I should warn you this won’t have much of a charge. We’ll need to get to where we’re going soon.”

Bond swears again and pulls out of the car park. “I can get us there in twenty minutes, barring traffic.”

“Good.” Tiago switches on the computer, watching it boot up. “We’ll need it.”

 

They reach the safe house just before the laptop dies, and Tiago tucks it under his arm as he follows James up the stairwells to their room. The moment he opens the door, Bond points to the nearest outlet. “If you don’t mind.”

“I love it when you’re forceful.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he heads toward the wall.

“Love me later. We need to get word to M as soon as possible.”

Tiago salutes him and plugs in the laptop. Taking a seat at the table, he situates the laptop in front of him and switches it back on. The next several hours are a blur as he finishes downloading his preferred programs. This time, before he sends Q the encrypted e-mail, he lets Bond dictate the directions to the safe house.

It takes just over a minute to receive a reply. Triumphant, he turns to look at Bond, eyes raking him up and down. He’s changed clothes since they arrived, into a black turtleneck, jacket, and trousers. They don’t fit him as well as Oberhauser’s tailored suit, but he looks divine in them anyway. “ _Oh_ , Mr. Bond.”

“Do you see something you like?” He smirks, leaning against the table, echoing Tiago’s words on the train.

“I do. Is it ‘later’ yet?”

“That depends. Have you contacted Q?” Bond asks, gesturing to the laptop.

He sets the computer aside and stands, crossing to his pretty little agent. “I have. They won’t be here for a few hours yet…Now why don’t we take this elsewhere? As delightful as you look in that, you’ll look even better _out_ of it.”

“Lead the way.” He steps into his arms and murmurs against his mouth.

And time melts away.

 

It’s nightfall before M arrives, long after Bond has gone and returned with takeout for supper. Tiago tinkers with his new computer, preparing it for the fight ahead of them. He straightens when someone fiddles with the doorknob. Across the room, Bond waits.

Gareth Mallory enters, stopping when he catches sight of Tiago. Two men—one of them Q—appear behind him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Surprise.” He smiles, pushing his chair back and offering his hand.

M doesn’t take it.

“I’ll vouch for him.” Bond steps between them. “Tiago’s been invaluable to this operation.”

Pursing his lips, M gives a curt nod. He throws a bag onto the table. “Then I’ll trust you—for now. What have you got for me, 007?”

The agent pulls out a gun as he reaches for the bag. “The recently deceased head of Spectre and his chief of intelligence, your new best friend, C. About to take control of his very own global surveillance system that he built right here under our noses.”

“Then we’d better move. The system goes online at midnight.” M checks his own gun, seeming unaffected by the news.

“If that happens, Spectre will have control of everything.” Bond tosses a gun to Tiago, and continues. “So you and I will have a word with C while Q and Tiago hack into the system and stop it from going online.”

The man glances at Tiago, narrowing his eyes. “You’re sure he can be trusted? He was one of them.”

“I think you’ll find he’s changed.” Bond says, turning to smile at the blond.

Tiago returns the smile, holstering his gun behind his back. “I’m at your service, M.”

Squinting at him through his glasses, Q gives a faltering nod. “I’m willing to work with him, sir.”

“Very good, then.” M points at Tiago as he leaves the room. “Cock it up and I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

They follow him out of the building, splitting up into two separate vehicles—Bond and M in one, the other three in another, with Ms. Moneypenny in the passenger seat. Taking hold of Bond’s hand before they leave, Tiago gives it a firm squeeze. “Be careful, _meu amor_.”

His eyes soften at the words, but he doesn’t return them. “You too.”

The others say nothing of their exchange. Tiago climbs into the back seat of the car, next to Q, and opens his laptop again. “What do you say to a wager, Q? First one to shut down the system owes the other a drink.”

“That sounds delightful.” Q gives him a sideways smile, and they share a laugh. “I should thank you, for sending us the information.”

“Anything for James.” The words are too sentimental, but he can’t retract them. Tiago logs into the computer, typing in Denbigh’s password and accessing his systems.

And the battle begins.

They follow Bond’s car at a distance, and Tiago wonders what Bond and M are talking about. If he’s realistic, it’s probably him. There’s a great chance that M won’t take Bond’s word that he’s betrayed Spectre for MI6, and he wonders how his agent will convince him that he can be trusted.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall!

“Are you in yet?” M’s voice sounds from a radio.

“There’s just a few more layers of impenetrable security, but I think we’re getting somewhere.” Q replies, glancing at Tiago’s screen and nodding to himself. They’ve taken different routes into the system, but they’re at the same spot.

The boy’s had practice while he’s been dead. Tiago can’t help but smile. This will be fun.

As they turn around a corner into a tunnel, they catch sight of M’s car, flattened against the wall by another vehicle. A chill runs down Tiago’s spine. Is James alive? Is he well?

Several men stand around the crash, and Moneypenny shouts, “They’ve seen us. Reverse!”

The tires squeal as Tanner reverses the car. Shots fire at them, and Q ducks as a bullet sings through the window. It misses Tiago by a hair’s breadth, the heat of it stinging his face. “Do you have any sense of self-preservation?” Q asks when he sets back to work.

“None.” And Tiago laughs, because if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll scream. _Where is James?_

Moneypenny’s phone rings, and she picks it up. “Sir? Yes, we’ll be right there.” Barking an order at Tanner, she hangs up the phone and holds on to the handle above the door as they turn around another corner.

M stands on the sidewalk, waiting for them. There’s no sign of Bond.

Leaping into the car beside them, M shouts for them to go, to continue on to the Centre for National Security.

Without looking up from his computer screen, Tiago tries not to assume the worst. “Bond?”

“They’ve got him. They nearly got me.” M catches his breath, glancing over Q’s shoulder to stare at their progress. “I’ve no idea what all that means, but I trust you’re doing well?”

“We’re almost in, sir.”

Closing his eyes, Tiago tries to focus on the task at hand. Bond would want him to finish the job, to finish tearing down the program…but he can’t. “Pull over.”

“We’re in a bit of a rush.” Tanner doesn’t slow down.

Tiago sighs and unbuckles his seatbelt. Handing his computer to M, across Q’s lap, he apologizes. “I’m going after Bond. I suppose you win this round, Q. I look forward to next time.”

Opening the car door, he launches himself onto the street, rolling as he hits the hard pavement. It’s going to leave bruises, but if they can’t afford to stop properly, it’s the only thing he has left.

He stands, swaying, and brushes himself off. If Spectre has Bond, god knows what they’ll do to him.

“I’m coming, James.” Tiago dashes down the street, whispering his promise into the empty air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't even write the porn this time. I am a disgrace to my family.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a final showdown.

**Chapter Eleven**

_Revenge is slow in the planning, and Silva takes years to do it, watching from the shadows as Mother returns to London, hires a new slew of agents, and finds a liking in one 007._

_The moment he sees James Bond over the computer screen, he feels a connection. This is her newest pet, the latest rat to fall into the oil drum. He can see almost at once that they will come to blows. This agent will never betray Mother, and he will never abandon his quest._

_It is an unfortunate inevitability that they will eat each other._

_Pity._

 

“And you’re certain we can trust him?” M asks, watching the roads with hard precision.

Bond settles into his seat and eyes his boss sidelong. “Would I vouch for him if I had the slightest doubt?”

“Even you can be deceived, 007.” He bristles at the suggestion.

It’s true, of course, but it’s not the case. He’s seen enough of Tiago’s nature to know him almost better than he knows himself. They’re two sides of the same coin, the last two rats.

And this time, they’ve joined forces. Tiago won’t betray him, any more than he’d betray himself.

“I’m sure of him.” He says at last.

M considers his words, and heaves a sigh. “It’s on your head if he turns on us.”

“I can handle that.” With a smile, Bond checks the gun at his back. He itches to finish this, to confront C and end this. It’s time past that they rid England—the world—of Spectre’s influence.

If his assurance isn’t enough to convince M to trust Tiago, it’s enough to silence his protests. M reaches for his radio, speaking into it. “Are you in yet?”

“There’s just a few more layers of impenetrable security, but I think we’re getting somewhere.” Q answers, and if Bond strains, he can hear the rapid beat of typing fingers. They’ll be fine. There’s nothing Q can’t do with Tiago at his side.

As they turn down a tunnel, M picks up speed. He’s just as antsy to put an end to this as Bond is.

But exasperation won’t get them to the Centre of National Security, he reminds himself, thinking back to Tiago’s words in the computer shop. _Patience is a virtue_.

Perhaps so, but patience won’t get them to C any faster, and that’s what they need.

Bond sees the car out of the corner of his eyes, and before he can open his mouth to warn M, it’s crashing into them. His body rocks forward in a whiplash as their car ricochets into the wall of the tunnel. He sees stars for a moment, and as the world grows heavier around him, he catches sight of a man approaching his side.

Just wonderful. They’ve found him.

And Bond blacks out.

 

The first thing he notices when he wakes is the dark. There’s a bag over his head, and he keeps his eyes closed, heightening the other senses as he waits for the opportune moment to strike. They’ve handcuffed him, naturally, but that won’t be a problem once he’s free. Bond slows his breathing as they peal through the city. When the car slows to a stop, someone grabs for him, and he lets them.

“Get him in the building.” A man snaps, pointing a gun at Bond’s head. “Move. Move!”

 _And, go_. He rips the gun out of the man’s hands, firing to his left and then his right. Raising his hands, he rips them apart, breaking the cuffs, and pulls the bag off his head.

He’s in front of the old MI6 building. Of _course_ he is.

Rubble lies along the edges of the room as he enters the building, and he catches sight of the memorial wall. His name has been spray-painted below the last name, and an arrow directs him further into the building.

It’s meant for him to see. He was meant to kill the men who captured him, meant to come into the building alone.

 _Spectre has a strange sense of humor_.

Gun drawn and finger on the trigger, Bond follows the arrows on the wall, leading him to the basement, through the tunnel leading out to the Thames. A boat waits, lifeless, at the dock. It’s the only sign that someone’s been here in months. He’s alone, so they either haven’t taken M, or he’s already in the building. He prays for the former.

As he walks down the darkened shooting range, the lights turn on and each target flicks open. His face has been pasted onto each one, and Bond rolls his eyes.

Oberhauser’s alive, by the look of it, and he isn’t happy about Morocco.

That’s unfortunate for him. Bond will kill him anyway.

He keeps walking. There’s string on the ceiling, leading him on through the showers. Oberhauser’s left pictures on the far end of each: Vesper, M, Tiago, Mr. Greene, and even Le Chiffre. It’s all very dramatic, but he isn’t intimidated. It’s just another power play.

Pathetic, as Tiago would say.

The strings are converging, and he tails them, holding out his gun as he turns a corner to see Oberhauser waiting at the far end of the hallway.

 _Shoot him before he can run_.

He fires three times, and the bullets crash into a glass barrier between them. Cursing under his breath, Bond approaches. “You’re a hard man to kill.”

Oberhauser turns, concealed fury in his scarred and whitened right eye. Bond’s calling card.

“Ouch.” He says, holding back a smile. It’s almost enough to make up for the torture. Almost. “I do hope that doesn’t hurt too much.”

Shaking his head, Oberhauser leans forward. “My wounds will heal. What about yours?”

Bond says nothing. He’ll let the man exhaust himself with words before he finds a way past the glass.

“Look around you, James. This is what’s left of your world. Everything you ever stood for, everything you ever believed in: a ruin.”

It’s curious that he takes so much credit for work other people have done. Bond raises his eyebrows. “Why are we here? Did you miss me?”

“No.” Oberhauser shakes his head, but there’s a flicker of the truth in his eyes. He’s obsessed, almost as much as Tiago was with M. That level of fixation can be used against him. “But I know some people who do.”

M. He should have known. Bond’s stomach clenches. Who else does he have? _Does he have Tiago?_ “Where are they?”

Now Oberhauser grins. “That’s for you to find out.” Turning, the other man walks to the wall, pressing the button on a detonator. An alarm wails above them. Oberhauser looks back at Bond, smile widening. “In two minutes, this building will be demolished. I can get out easily. But you…you have a choice. Die trying to save them, or save yourself and live with the pain.”

He pushes back a wave of fear, keeping his voice calm. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Several moments pass before he cracks, laughing like a madman. “I’ve really put you through it, haven’t I? Well, that’s brothers for you. They always know which buttons to press.”

The door to the left of the detonator opens. Tiago’s voice echoes through the entrance. “You didn’t invite me to play, Franz. I’m hurt.”

Before either of them can react, shots ring out. There’s a beat before Oberhauser collapses, each bullet embedded in his skull. He falls face-first to the floor, a pool of blood pouring out around his head.

It’s over. Bond closes his eyes.

Looking up from his handiwork, Tiago can’t help but laugh. “Anticlimactic, yes?”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Does he have M?”

Tiago shakes his head. “No. He’s with the others. Get out of here, James.”

Bond breathes a sigh of relief before dashing down the hallway. He was right. Oberhauser was bluffing, and there’s nothing left for him here. Tiago can make it out easily. It’s him he needs to worry about.

Racing through the subterranean passageways, he makes his way to the nearest exit. God willing, the boat will still be there. If it’s not, well then he’d better be a fast runner. 

He makes it to the boat just as the timer runs out.

There’s a rumble as he stumbles into it, turning the keys and praying that the ignition turns on. It squeals for a moment, lights flashing on and off as rubble begins to fall around him.

And then it switches on. Bond breathes a “thank god” in gratitude as he shifts the boat into gear and tears out of the tunnels, dodging debris.

Just as he drives into open air, the building crashes down, caving in the hole he’s left behind.

If he squints, he can see shadows in the glass monstrosity across the Thames, watching him from the Centre of National Security, and he hopes they’ve caught sight of him. Hopes they know he's made it out.

In the distance, a figure waves at him, and he can’t hold back a smile as he draws closer. Tiago calls for him, and he turns the boat, heading toward him.

The others can wait. He has better things to do.

“You always have to make an entrance, Mr. Bond.” Tiago says as he stops the boat.

Bond chuckles and reaches for his lover’s hands, letting the other man pull him onto the streets. He stops to catch his breath. “Well, I learned from the best.”

“Naturally.” And then Tiago’s kissing him, and nothing else matters.

When they break away, Bond pants and rests their foreheads together. “How did you find me?”

“Simple deduction.” The blond sounds just as out of breath as he is, and it sends a thrill down his spine. “What other place in London means so much to you? All I had to do was find the entrance he used, which wasn’t that hard when I found his helicopter. I killed the men for you.”

“Have I mentioned that I love you?” Bond laughs against his mouth, kissing him over again, frantic to touch him.

Tiago hums into the kiss. “It was implied.”

They share another laugh, breathless with adrenaline. Behind them, the MI6 building has collapsed in on itself, and Bond can’t help but stare at it in solemn regret. “They were going to demolish it anyway. I suppose this saves them the cost.”

“So what now, James?” He asks, smoothing the agent’s jacket and brushing dust off his shoulders.

Turning back to him with a wicked smile, Bond wraps his fingers around Tiago’s tie, pulling it from his vest and tugging his lover toward him. “Now? We go to my flat, where you take me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.”

He shivers at the idea. “I rather like the sound of that.”

“I hoped you would.”

 

Tiago laughs at the sight of his flat. “You’ve been taking my advice, I see. Nothing superfluous.”

“Except you.” Bond mutters, slamming the door behind him and pulling Tiago close. He attacks his mouth with a vengeance, sucking on his lower lip and guiding him from the entrance to his living room.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he ignores it. Let M debrief him another day. He’s endured enough, and it’s past time to relax and enjoy himself.

They stumble to the bedroom, undressing one another as they go. Clothes trail behind them in a littered pathway. Falling into bed, their hands roam one another’s bodies, frenzied in the rush and realization that they are both still alive.

They’ve done it. Oberhauser is dead and Spectre is all but powerless. The 00 program will no doubt be reinstated, and M returned to office. It’s a victory on all counts. And they savor that triumph in the comfort of Bond’s bed, over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anticlimactic, yes? (Shh, Franz Oberhauser doesn't deserve anything better.)


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things conclude.

**Epilogue**

_When he sees her again, in person, she’s just as strong as he remembers. Her shoulders are held back, tight and professional, but she’s smaller than memory serves. Silva remarks upon it, laughs to see this tiny thing commanding an army of spies._

_She will not apologize, will not express remorse she does not feel. He thinks his heart would break if he still had one._

_And when she will not say his name, the pain is almost too much to bear. He has no choice now. He will kill her. Then he will kill himself._

_He has nothing left._

 

Tiago moves in to Bond’s flat at the agent’s request. It almost seems too fast, but for the time they’ve spent with one another. The last two rats, the prized agents of MI6. They know they’ll be fine.

M tells them later that they apprehended Mr. Denbigh. He’s being tried for treason, among other things. Spectre is in ruins without its leaders, and with the knowledge that Bond and Tiago have to give, it will be dismantled entirely within no time.

Bond is to receive a pay raise, and they’re to wait to find out whether Tiago will be pardoned or arrested for crimes of terrorism against the Crown. M assures them, however, that the majority are in his favor. The prediction is a pardon.

It’s good to be on the winning side.

They’re in bed, lounging naked in one another’s arms when Tiago remembers. He sits up, pulling away from Bond’s kiss. “There’s something we need to do.”

“Oh?” The agent rolls on top of him, running a hand down his side.

Moaning when Bond reaches his pelvis, he stammers to find the words. “Yes. Mr. White…he asked for a favor.”

“You said he was dead when you arrived.” Bond pauses, glancing up at him and arching a brow.

“He was. He recorded a video.” Tiago shudders when his lover rubs circles into his hip. “He asked that we find his daughter, apologize to her for what he’s put her through.”

Bond hums, kissing down his throat. “You think we should do it?”

“I think we owe him that much.” He arches into the touch, melting under Bond’s hands and mouth. “For bringing us together.”

“Then, by all means,” the agent whispers against his mouth, “we’ll find her.”

It’s the last time either of them are coherent enough to speak for hours.

 

With only an old photograph to guide them, it takes Tiago and Q several days to find a possible location. When they find a lead, Tiago smiles to see that the Hoffler Klinik will take them back to Altaussee, only a few hours away from Mr. White’s cabin.

It’s a charming coincidence.

“We have a name: Dr. Madeleine Swann.” Tiago tells his agent as they pack for the journey.

Glancing up, Bond folds a jacket. “And we’re sure it’s her?”

“We can’t be positive, but we’re fairly certain.” He zips up his bag and wraps an arm around Bond’s waist. The touch sends warmth to his chest and butterflies to his stomach, even after so much time. “Certain enough that it’s worth finding out.”

“Excellent.” Bond kisses his way into his mouth. “Our flight’s not for another two hours. What do you suggest we do to pass the time?”

Chuckling, he sweeps the suitcases off the bed and pulls Bond down on top of him. “I think we can figure something out.”

 

The Hoffler Klinik isn’t known to accept patients in pairs, but with enough money, they’ll bend to anything. Tiago threads his fingers through Bond’s as they wait for Dr. Swann to bring them to her office.

She looks enough like the photograph to be White’s daughter. He only hopes that she doesn’t cause too much of a fuss when they introduce themselves.

“Mr.’s Bond and Rodrigues?” Dr. Swann appears in the doorway. They stand, and she beckons them with one hand. “If you would follow me.”

Walking behind her, Bond leans toward his ear. “She’s lovely, don’t you think?”

“Not half so lovely as you.” Tiago replies, forcing down a wave of jealousy. Bond is his, and they both know it. But he’ll never stop appreciating beauty when he finds it. That doesn’t mean he intends to stray.

Particularly when the blond glances at Bond and sees the incorrigible bastard smirking in his own self-satisfied humor.

They follow Dr. Swann into a large room with a breathtaking view of the mountains. “Please take a seat.”

As they sit down in front of her desk, Tiago notes the extraordinary resemblance she bears to her father. “Thank you for seeing us together, Dr. Swann.”

“It’s not normally our practice to see couples, but I understand you’ve been quite generous with the clinic.” She replies, taking her seat and opening her files to read through their applications. “If you don’t mind, I have a few questions.”

“Not at all.” Bond says, and he reaches down to touch Tiago’s fingers, reassurance after his teasing.

He lets Bond field the questions as he studies Dr. Swann’s face. She is lovely, to be sure, but she’s also tired, and there’s a hint of fear behind her eyes that suggests she’s been living on the run for some time.

This is definitely their girl.

At last, Dr. Swann reaches the end of the application. “I see you’ve left the last question blank. What is your occupation?”

“That’s a bit difficult to answer.” Bond says, glancing sidelong at Tiago. “We kill people.”

Her face tightens, gaze snapping up to them. “Who are you, really?”

“We’re here at your father’s request.” Tiago touches Bond’s shoulder, taking the lead. “He’s dead.”

The fear behind her eyes grows almost as wide as the fury. “Did you kill him?”

Shaking his head, he reaches into his pocket for a flash drive. “He was dead when I found him. He’d been poisoned.”

“You need to leave.” She shakes her head, pointing to the door. “I’ve—”

Tiago holds up a hand as he stands, offering the device. “Spectre is gone. You’re free. We came to give you this.”

“They can’t reach you anymore.” Bond tells her. “And we mean you no harm.”

Dr. Swann hesitates a moment before taking the flash drive from him. “How can I trust you?”

They exchange a hesitant glance. Bond answers for them both. “I suppose you can’t.”

“Do you swear they won’t come for me?” For a brief moment, she’s a girl again, frightened and fearing for her life.

“I killed their leader myself.” He holds back the smile. She needs comfort, not bloodshed. “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

She glances at the flash drive in her hand. “If what you say is true…I should thank you both.”

Bond shakes his head. “Don’t thank us. We’re just doing our job.”

“We’re very sorry for your loss, Dr. Swann.” Tiago takes Bond’s hand in his. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Whatever else happens to Dr. Madeleine Swann, they’ve delivered their message, and they’ve freed her from hiding. The knowledge of her freedom is enough to count this as a victory.

 

Redemption, Tiago thinks, is the greatest form of closure. He hasn’t felt so alive since he first arrived in Hong Kong. When Mother betrayed him, he thought his life was over. After she died, he thought he would never see the light of day again. When he woke in the hospital, he was in a ruin.

And now?

Now he stands in M’s office, holding his breath as the man reads his fate. As likely as a pardon is, he can’t be certain that the Queen will forgive his actions. But he can hope.

“Tiago Rodrigues, it is our duty to express our gratitude for your service to MI6 and the Crown. As payment for your actions, Her Majesty hereby pardons you of your crimes.” M says, handing him an envelope stamped with the seal of the Queen. “MI6 would be pleased to offer you employment within its ranks, should you so desire.”

At his side, Bond smiles and reaches down to squeeze his hand. Numb with relief, Tiago accepts the envelope. “It would be my pleasure to work for MI6 again.”

“Very good. You’ll be reinstated as Agent 004, if you like.” Not all of the agents who once served MI6 have returned with the program. They’ve room for him in the field, where he can work alongside Bond if he wishes.

It’s more than he could have hoped for.

He jerks his head, nodding. “I would like that.”

M gives a curt smile and motions for his door. “That will be all.”

Tiago nods again. It’s the only thing he can manage at the moment. “Thank you, sir.”

“007?” M says as they both turn to leave. “It’s good to have you back.”

His lover is skilled at hiding his emotions, but Tiago can see the pleasure he takes from M’s words. After his grounding only weeks ago, it must be a great relief to be secure in his job. Bond’s lips twitch. “It’s my pleasure, sir.”

Taking a seat, M looks down at his paperwork. “You’ll both be given assignments by the end of the week. In the meantime, take a few days to yourselves. God knows you’ve earned it.”

“Very good, sir.” Bond says, taking Tiago’s hand in his with a smile. “Very good.”

They have _everything_ left.

 

Finis

_Here never shines the sun: here nothing breeds -_ William Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a blast writing this. I hope you enjoy the Spectre of my head.

**Author's Note:**

> IDEK what I'm doing anymore but Franz Oberhauser is the actual worst.


End file.
